Book I
by Intervigilium
Summary: A.U. work. An idea that came to me a few years back, had to be paused, and now returns a bit more mature. J.K. Rowling's bases for a different way to look into magic and Harry's struggles. Read and review as you please.
1. Chapter I

**BOOK I:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone  
_

**CHAPTER I:** _Strings  
_

"You're still a key below every time, Dursley", said a tired old man, recklessly dropping his glasses on the table aside him, massaging his eyes in stress.

"The problem is that no one's keeping up with me, professor!" answered a blond and angry kid from across the room.

He stood in front of a small piano, scratching his abnormally large belly. His seat creaked slightly now and then, as to emphasize the effort of sustaining the boy in his position. His small, blue eyes traveled from one classmate to another spread around the Music Room at St. Michael's Primary School. Although irritated by his arrogance, they all knew it was pointless to discuss with Dudley. Unless, of course, that your disregard for your own health surpassed any good judgment you might have. Quietly they all stood, as Thomas Harkin, the music teacher, regained his composure.

"Son... when two dozens of clocks are telling you it's afternoon, and yours is telling you it's not even eleven in the morning... it's either time to pack your bags and find another time zone, or recognize you're wrong", he sentenced, pausing to stride along the room. "You've played the piano for the last year in our little... 'orchestra'... and out of perseverance (and blind faith) I allowed it; but I daresay you ought to try changing instruments from now on."

Again, silence. Suppressed smiles all around the room, but not a single laughter or mockery took place. Dudley forced his most menacing look (which caused him, in turn, to look as though he was about to explode), but even _he_ wasn't sufficiently stupid to fight back his old professor. Not even considering that was his last day in that school. Slowly enough, his attention diverted from the image of Harkin's exploding head and returned to the master's ongoing (and final) speech:

"I'm pretty sure most of you will go on with your musical studies, wherever the winds lead you. I strongly recommend that you do. Metaphorically speaking, music saved my life countless times. Passing it on is my way of saying I've been trying to return the favor ever since."

"And finally… I'd just like to tell you that it's been a pleasure to teach this class. It is a teacher's right to dream… no, not dream… _to hope_, that his pupils succeed. Maybe someday one of you will come back, buy me a cup of that horrid coffee we offer here, and tell me my work is done", he added, laughing along with most of the class.

Almost as if rehearsed, when Mr. Thomas closed his briefcase the school bell rang loud, and a flurry of feet dashed out of the door. Between screams of joy from all the nearby classrooms, it was impossible to notice the quiet boy lazily standing up from the back of the Music Room, putting aside an old violin. It was a sad and silent goodbye: somehow, as he inched his glasses back to the base of his nose, he felt as the music in his life had fell victim of a premature death.

"Very consistent, son, as always", said his teacher by the door. The black-haired boy eyed him back, forcing a smile out of his lips. Fastening the one catch left in his backpack, he followed Harkins out of the room and into the school corridors.

"I'm going to miss your classes, sir." Truthfully, Mr. Harkin had been the only teacher he ever got along with to the point of making small-talk.

"I'll always be missing good students as well", said the elder, scratching his beard absent-mindedly. "You know, it never ceased to amaze me how differently you and that cousin of yours treat music."

To this, the youngster smiled ironically. "Aunt Petunia always pushed Dudley into these music classes", he said in a hoarse voice, pushing open the wooden doors to St. Michael's front garden. Everyone else seemed to have vanished already. "But she was told that indicating students would grant her a discount. And to be honest, professor", he added, facing the iron gates for one last time before going home, "I'm quite sure that signing me in was more about keeping me away from her."

Thomas Harkin stared back at his student's passive green eyes, a blank expression in his face. Pity did not suit him, but it was hard to think of the child in front of him without drawing such a feeling. The over-sized, hand-me-down clothes granted him a skinny frame, even skinnier than he already was. They looked as though they had belonged to Dudley's just the past year... and knowing the Dursleys, they probably did.

"Her loss, our gain, and you'll do well to never forget this", he said finally, patting his student on the shoulder as he was about to cross the street. "And good luck at your new school", he shouted, starting his car and disappearing slowly in the distance.

"Yeah", the boy pondered quietly, slowly facing the sidewalk and making his way home. "I'm sure it will be great."

His uncle Vernon's house, _his_ house, wasn't exactly near, but this daily exercise wasn't optional either. His relatives didn't bother to pick him up as they did with Dudley. They didn't bother to lend him any money for a bus, and a bicycle (such as the one Dudley possessed and never used) was a complete absurd to even consider.

Still. It was a small period of the day in which he had absolute freedom. No chores to do, no need to fight with his cousin and get punished afterwards... just the sound of his feet and the random cars crossing the suburbs. Immersed in the silence he held so dear, the boy couldn't really notice his hand over the backpack's catch, its fingers moving slowly as if the violin was still there, 'singing' in his arms.

Unaware of how long he drifted through those same old steps, he finally halted by a neatly cut lawn. Privet Drive's 4th.

He stared briefly at the rest of the sidewalk. And wondered, as many times before, what would happen if he just continued to walk. Where would his feet take him when he finally decided to stop? And would the Dursleys even bother to search for him, if he did so?

The horizon was covered in clouds, and a slight wind brushed his face. There was a scent of possibilities. The temporary thrill of something new straight ahead...

"Someday", he told himself aloud, facing the clouds. "Someday I will."

With one sad sigh, he unlocked the front door, picked up the mail his cousin had ignored completely on his way in a few minutes ago, and left it by the kitchen table.

Across the kitchen, beneath the main stairs, another door took him to his 'bedroom': a smaller flight of stairs leading to a dim-lit space, too big for a closet, too small for a basement. Uncle Vernon constantly boasted about making a cellar out of it as soon as _they had no need to use it anymore._ A bed, an old school locker, and the tiniest of wooden tables: his possessions.

Retrieving a school report from his backpack, the boy opened the table's top drawer and placed it with all his previous exams and grades from St. Michael's; all flawless. It would truly take years before he'd understand the reason why he kept those things. Some part of him always wished to forget all those years of isolation; after all, being friends with him meant war against his cousin, and logic used to get the better out of all his classmates.

Then again... having those marks and grades was a proof of endurance, of his very existence. It was something worth keeping. Besides... next year would be different. Dudley would follow his dad's footsteps and head to a prestigious secondary school. He would have to attend a smaller, public one, but little did he care. It was a clean sheet, a brand new beginning.

"Boy! Get over here, I need help to get dinner ready!" bellowed his aunt. Waking from his thoughts, Harry James Potter closed the drawer and made his way back to another 'eventful' evening with the Dursleys.

**PERSONAL ****NOTES:** most characters and locations in this fiction are from the Harry Potter universe, and therefore are of J. K. Rowling's property. I love her work, but decided to use her bases to deviate the original plot into, well... fan fiction. I had started something really alike once, but college, work and life got stuck in the middle. I grew older, and so did the story in my head. So, like Harry here... I made myself a clean sheet. Do read and review. After all, I'm here to learn.

Hope to hear from you soon.


	2. Chapter II

**BOOK I:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER II: **_A second away from me_

Harry's eyes opened a few minutes before the break of dawn. The tradition of beginning his household tasks early in the day granted him an insomnia-like state he couldn't seem to shake away, not even during weekends. No complaints there, really. The worst part actually was occasionally falling asleep to a decent dream, and having to wake up before the end (like when he imagined Dudley going to school with nothing but his giant underwear, and never actually got to see the boy enter the classroom, followed by the roaring laughter of other students).

Changing clothes quickly, he made his way silently to the backyard. He always loved to see the sunrise from there, whenever possible. There was a utopia about it, a feeling of infinite chance-taking when the sky colored itself in red and yellow, especially in the summer. Though Harry knew better than to let himself drift in imagination just to fall back to reality later on, something about that day really felt different…

Maybe his aunt would ask him to make pancakes instead of eggs today.

Loud steps behind him indicated he was no longer alone.

"_Pooper_... I mean, Potter", said Dudley, in what he considered a hilarious joke.

"Morning, _Dungley_. Oh, sorry, Dudley. Can't seem to get that name of yours right, now can I?" he retorted simply, eyes still in the horizon. Harry knew very well that early in the day his cousin's brain was still too cold to have a handle on an insult.

"What are you doing here anyway?" asked the chubby boy, rubbing his eyes foolishly.

"Meant to ask you the exact same thing", answered Harry, as soon as the sun scorched the now cloud-free horizon, and he stood up from the bench he occupied. "I figured that, with school being over and all, seeing you out of bed before 10 o'clock would be just preposterous."

Dudley remained silent, his jaw half-open, apparently hacking his brain for something. "I… I heard someone moving downstairs and… and I thought it was mom… I…"

Harry sighed to the floor. "Preposterous means 'something hard to believe', in case that's what you're wondering, Dudley."

Harry did not wait for a reply, leaving his cousin to his own vague thoughts and entering the kitchen. Out of experience, he always tried to keep conversations with him to a minimum; being smarter didn't really mean a thing when a fist hit you directly in the stomach.

"Dudley's already up. Definitely not the ordinary Saturday", he pondered, setting the breakfast table up and leaving, as quietly as he could, out to the street, a toast in his hand. It was either escaping now while he could, or waiting for Aunt Petunia to wake up and remember something she needed done in the house.

Walking around distant neighborhoods was one of Harry's favorite things in the world. So adept of escaping his relatives as he was, he often found comfort in the white lines of an empty street. Savoring his toast he progressed, observing as the sprinklers started up and some neighbors ran wildly to catch the journals while they could. A 5-year old girl was taking her dog out; two brothers were leaving their house to jog; a husband was hurried by his wife, apparently late for work.

Yet, while it was interesting to see these little glimpses of other people's lives, it saddened him at times as well. Everywhere he looked at; it seemed so much easier to be happy. Not that the Dursleys weren't _joyful_; they just didn't really consider including Harry in any of their daily accomplishments. Ever since he could remember ANYTHING, Harry felt like he was the heaviest of burdens for them to carry. And to make matters worse, they never bothered to reason it out. They just loathed him, period. And he'd better cope with it.

_"Stop right there, mister!"_

Harry woke from those disturbing thoughts to the sound of a screaming child; the same one he saw a few blocks behind. A baby shepherd dog ran past him, and so did her, the dog's collar dancing wildly in her hand.

"Suppose he's the _mister_. She shouldn't have let it loose", he thought, as the girl progressed through the bushy lawns in a rush, going back and forth as the puppy eluded her grasp. Apparently, in that particular block, people were still fast asleep; there was no one else around. Harry was considering giving her a hand when the dog crossed between her legs and shot to the street, stopping exactly in the middle and waving its tail happily as to continue the game. It neglected to notice the big truck riding down the street, though...

It was a recipe for disaster: Harry observed, petrified, as the little girl, completely blind to all but her pet rushed towards the asphalt. The truck wasn't going really fast, but the braking point was long gone... pushing the brakes too fast now would have the truck going homicidal all over the place. The wide-eyed driver sounded the horn, to no avail: the girl managed to get the dog in her arms, but froze, screaming, as the truck grew closer and closer...

Harry's unfinished toast flew into the air. He had completely lost control of his legs and his heart had apparently found a breach through his chest, pounding all over the place; though in his head he knew this was rash (and most likely the closest to suicide he'd ever get), cowering wasn't a choice. A second's worth of thinking now would be a lifetime of regret later.

_Tic._

In his mind, he cursed the dog for fleeing. The girl, for not reacting to his pleading screams. The driver, for being just a little too fast. Harry had the time to wrap the child in his arms... and nothing else.

_Tac._

Then, his toast hit the sidewalk.

**PERSONAL NOTES:** my first attempt of a cliff-hanger. How was it? Thanks for reading, and if possible, reviewing.

Hope to hear from you soon.


	3. Chapter III

**BOOK I:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER II****I: **_Not myself_

It shouldn't take long, thought Harry. He'd only hear earthly sounds briefly now... the screaming tires, the after-crying hiccups from the little girl, that annoying, never-ending bark of that puppy... he hadn't been able to move fast enough, no one could have. He should have died. _They_ should have died.

_Shouldn't they?_

Harry could still feel air in his lungs. He still felt his arms wrapped tight around a small, shivering 'package'. He felt the harsh blacktop against one of his knees, the other leg supporting his weight as he kneeled. He felt as if the entire world would collapse over his head. But should he feel this way? Wasn't Death supposed to take away the pain?

Slowly, very slowly... he opened his eyes to take a look around.

He read once that Heaven or Hell were both dependants on the choices we made on Earth. In a quick glimpse, Harry was positive he hadn't taken as many choices as, apparently, he should have.

Everything looked exactly the same. He was at the very same street, holding the same little girl, her dog licking her face, still over her lap. Even the truck was almost stopping, not far from there. The problem was that, judging by the tire marks and the houses around him, Harry was about thirty feet away from where he reached the girl.

"This can't be right", he thought desperately, his pulse accelerating. Turning around for other signs of his location, however, his heartbeats went back to the usual pace. In fact, they sort of stopped. Across the street, by the sidewalk… the toast he discarded was just hitting the floor.

Harry looked down. The curly-haired girl looked from the dog, to the truck, and back at him. The awe in her eyes couldn't be expressed in words. It's one of those genuine expressions that we sadly tend to lose while growing up… something in her eyes echoed: _"Let's do that again!"_

"A, A, Are you alr… Are you okay?" he asked, louder than he meant, as he placed the girl gently back down. Her dog started sniffing around calmly, looking for a suitable place to… well, do what dogs do. The 5-year old continued to look at Harry, her jaw wide open, her eyes round as coins. Harry noticed, relieved beyond measure that she didn't have a single scratch in her body.

"Are you _an angel_, sir?" she asked, hands on her back, in a conspiracy tone.

Dazed as he was, Harry felt like laughing. His entire body still shook violently, and the most unusual cold started to possess him. In the distance, he heard the truck's driver coming their way. Several people were leaving their houses as well to see what was going on. The boy panicked, regaining a bit of his consciousness. If the Dursleys ever found out he had been involved in such a mess, he was positive he'd be kicked out… or worse (he knew well of their inventiveness for punishing). Though they loved to peek over the fences and spy on their neighbors' lives, to even think of a scandal of their own was heresy. If _this_ reached their doorstep, Harry was history, as far as the world would ever know.

So Harry ran. Ran as fast and as far as his legs would carry him, not looking back once. Adrenaline took him through the first corners, but eventually exhaustion got the better of him. Harry found himself at a park that, he knew, was just a couple of blocks from Privet Drive. Sitting at the nearest bench, he pressed his chest firmly, breathing hard. His lungs ached like never before, and his head was close to cracking open. The chilliness was replaced now by intense heat pouring out of his nervous hands. Everything around him seemed to move slower than his eyes… like never before, Harry wished his parents could be there beside him. Just a simple hug and someone telling him it would be alright. That everything that happened had a perfectly reasonable explanation. Looking around, though, his surroundings took the liberty of snapping him out of it. To no big surprise, he was alone, as always.

He played mentally those last minutes in his head over and over: his glasses fell on the grass and he didn't even notice. Nothing made sense. He had never moved that fast in his life. In fact, he was quite sure that no man or woman _could_ move that fast. He didn't even remember MOVING! His brain should've 'restarted' at some point of the ordeal, out of stress. It was the only possibility… wasn't this how scientists explained "dejà vu" nowadays? When your brain just decided to _reboot_?

"Of course", he said aloud, calming down, "that's it. My brain tricked me into thinking I was that fast. There was enough time to get them out of the truck's way, I'm sure there was."

Content with his own explanation, he, at last, managed to relax, finally noticing the blur in his sight. He picked up his glasses and cleaned the lenses in his sleeve, as quietly as he could. It was only as he sighted a fountain right in the middle of the park that a smile threatened to emerge from his lips.

_He had done __something he could be proud of._

As fast as the smile came, though, it was equally fast as it faded. Harry brought himself up and started going home, the mid-morning sun following him.

_And no one… would ever know about it._

Through the rest of the day, Harry did as many chores as aunt Petunia could think of. It wasn't wise, he thought, getting her crossed until he knew that his 'stunt' wouldn't have any sort of repercussion. Actually, it wasn't wise to cross her regardless of circumstances.

"Hey, Potter! Planning to become a gardener?" bellowed a squeaky voice. Peter Tevenele, one of Dudley's school friends, had just arrived, while Harry fixed the already perfect lawn.

"Actually I've been considering making a career out of _planting _a shovel into people's faces. Care to take a test, Tevenele?" he answered dryly, clutching hard the shovel he carried in his hands. Drenched in sweat and now cursing the sun he loved by the morning, Harry had little patience to spare for insults. And Peter was no bigger than Harry: he tended, in fact, to be much braver _only_ when Dudley happened to be around. The visitor took a step back.

"We should ask what Dudley thinks about that career of yours", replied Peter, his voice failing. Harry merely smiled.

"Maybe we should. Has he made the proposition yet?"

"Huh?"

"I assume you are to marry him. That's what couples do, right? Talk about things", retorted the black-haired boy finally, turning around and moving on with his work.

Unable to respond, apparently, Peter moved to the front door, fuming. Harry knew all too well that later this could lead to a fight, but it was the last of his worries at the moment. He hadn't taken his mind away from that morning yet…

Troubled as he felt, Harry sat nervously for dinner that night. Apparently his row with Peter passed unseen, for Dudley did no comment about it. What worried him the most was the local news that his uncle loved to watch while eating.

"So far, so good," he thought. A baby tiger was born at the local zoo, and two bank robbers seemed to be finally behind bars, after weeks of investigation and pursuing. The local weather, some political rubbish… Harry, feeling the block of cement in his chest rapidly disappearing, took a deep breath and hid a smile. He was, at last, sa…

_And now, Susanne has one final story for us. What have you got?_

_Thank you. This could have been a dreadful Saturday for the citizens inhabiting London's suburbs. A truck driver, apparently under the effect of alcohol and/or drugs, almost ra__n over a 5-year old girl early in the morning, according to witnesses at Winston Street._

_Questioned by police officers, the driver claimed the girl jumped in front of the truck and he had no sufficient time to brake. According to him, the disaster was avoided by a young man. He ran to the girl and, these are his words, __**vanished with her in a haze of light and smoke**__. The police ordered a toxicology exam, since the man presented no visible signs of drunkenness._

_The mysterious savior, however, seems to partially corroborate the confused driver's version. A kid was seen running away from the scene, and the nearly ran-over girl, Danielle, although a bit shocked and refusing to offer any detailed descriptions, did confirm that a young man took her in his arms and pulled her away from the truck's path. As one could predict, she recalls no "inexplicable haze", since her eyes were closed at the time. Roger?_

…fe.

**PERSONAL NOTES:** I wish I had something clever and insightful to say here, but hey, it's Friday, so you'll have to forgive me. Read and review, if possible. By the way, my deepest thanks to the people who've assigned alerts to my updates. It fuels me to continue.

Hope to hear from you soon.


	4. Chapter IV

**BOOK I:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER IV****: **_The substance of doubt_

"Streets these days. Can you imagine? Winston is really close-by. How long before this madness reaches us?" protested Uncle Vernon, punching the table.

Aunt Petunia threw her arms dramatically over her son. "Ah, Duddy, promise your mother you won't be playing around the street. Promise me!"

Dudley pushed her aside as well as he could. He hated those fluffy names, especially when Harry was just there, in ear range. "Sure mom, I PROMISE! And why are YOU so serious all of a sudden?" he said, pointing at Harry. Temporarily forgotten by his relatives, Harry's mind drifted like a ship caught by a storm deep into the sea. Now, with three pairs of judging eyes over him, he gulped, picking up the empty plates as he progressed around the table.

"Nothing, it's just… terrifying. That little girl could be dead now", he mumbled feebly.

To his great surprise, his uncle rescued him from further questioning. "You know, for once I'll have to agree with you, boy! It's good to see that youth isn't completely lost. Glad to know that other people bother to raise their sons with sturdiness of character as much as we do!" he sentenced, rubbing his son's hair.

That was too much even to Harry's superb tolerance. Turning around so no one could see the disbelief and fury in his stare, he headed for the kitchen sink. The Dursleys, again ignorant of his actions, entered the living room, waiting for their favorite shows to begin.

"No aunt Petunia, I don't need any help. You go ahead," Harry whispered, clenched teeth. "I'll be right with you". Truthfully, Harry was glad to be left alone at the moment. It was the first time he blessed his relatives' ignorance to details… if they had paid any extra attention to the hour of the accident, or noticed the deep sweat in his clothes as he entered their house that morning, he was positive that uncle Vernon's speech on honored youth would've been completely different.

And then, there was that story… _haze of light and smoke_? Added to his dejà vu, now there was a delirious driver added to the equation. What was that all about, after all?

"When you're done with that, don't forget to take the trash out, will you?" said his aunt from the living room. Harry didn't bother to respond, his eyes straying towards a calendar over the fridge. And then, as he set aside the last plate, Harry half-wished to hurl it against the wall. He had just remembered…

Tomorrow would be his birthday.

And, as tradition called for, the Dursleys seemed to have forgotten all about it. The absolute normality with which they treated the 31st of July every year was eventually leading Harry to neglect it just as well. In fact, if memory served him, the boy had only found out about his birthday by accident at school, when a teacher saw his school records and congratulated him, to Harry's surprise: he never forgot Mrs. Finnegan's pitiful stare either.

As he opened the front door and headed for the metallic bins, the sadness he always pretended not to feel somehow surfaced. As he sealed back the trash, a silent tear fell, a dull sound over cold metal.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" he whispered in anger, drying the tears away on his sleeve.

_"As far as I can see? Nothing, really."_

Harry froze. Searching his surroundings, he found himself alone. Yet, he was POSITIVE he heard someone.

"Who… Who's there?"

"Over here, by the backyard", announced a deep-voice, calmly, as if Harry was the oldest of friends. It wasn't possible, Harry thought. To be heard from the backyard that person should be, at least, screaming. Why weren't his uncle busting out of the door with his salt-loaded shotgun? Trapped between curiosity and fear, Harry ended up choosing the first.

Moving alongside the house, he stopped to pick up the shovel he used previously that day. Clutching it as an axe, he advanced, paying attention to every slightest sound. The stranger, apparently, was whistling. Beethoven's 9th, if he was not mistaken.

Harry peeked around the corner. Nothing could prepare him for what he saw.

There stood a man, but not the ordinary one. THIS man was taller than most basketball players ever dream of becoming, and wider than two club bouncers put aside. An enormous coat allowed only his tree log-sized boots to be visible. His hair was long and untidy, even more than Harry's (given that several strands of his own hair were usually pointing out at every possible direction, that _really _meant something). If fact, it was more of a lion's mane than human hair.

He turned around, diverting his eyes from the moon and staring back at Harry. His beard was a wild extension of his rebel, brown hair, enhancing the impact of his imposing dark eyes. Any normal child should be running for his or her life at that moment.

Harry, though… relaxed. He didn't know why, but the giant's presence calmed him. Slowly, he lowered the shovel, as his unusual _companion_ smiled.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"For now, names are not necessary, little one", said the giant, his voice commanding and friendly. "I can't stay for long, so It's enough to tell you this: **No, No, Yes** and **Most certainly**."

Silence ruled briefly…

"I'm sorry… _what_?"

"These are the answers to all these questions in your head. **No**, you did not have a dejà vu today. **No**, that truck driver wasn't crazy. **Yes**, you saved that little girl, but not by running or any method that's considered… _normal_ by the general population. But is it normal _to you_? **Most certainly**!"

"I don't…"

"Understand. You're not expected to, this soon. But you will in due time. Isn't that you uncle by the backdoor?" he said, pointing. Harry turned around, the bones in his neck aching from the sudden sprain. No one was there. And the giant, he noticed a second later… was no longer there either.

"Hello?"

Silence. Harry looked around every corner of the yard, but he was nowhere to be found. Not that he'd be able to hide properly anyway…

"What exactly do you think you're doing?"

This time the door was really open.

"Sorry, aunt Petunia", he started, massaging the back of his head. "I, I, I… thought I heard someone out here."

"Well, obviously you were wrong. Hurry up and get to bed," she spat back, irritated.

Still bemused, Harry entered his room, looking around as if hoping that giant was there somehow, hunched back at a corner. Two hours of practically no sleep later, the possibility that he was going mad started to nag at him. It was just too much… the crazy talk with a giant, above all things! Not even **he** believed it completely… it was easier to justify everything like that. Of course… he was going mental.

A louder 'click' aside his bed. It was his alarm clock informing him it was his birthday. He laughed nervously.

"So, Harry, what do you want for your birthday this year?" he asked himself. He could truly feel the silence, the words returning to his ears as steady notes from a sad song. "What do you want?" he asked aloud, one more time. It was only then, as he looked sideways to the wooden table, that he noticed a small piece of paper, carefully placed beneath his backpack. Harry sat up straight, reaching for it. It was just about the size of a business card. Harry flipped it over to find the following:

_The Public Library__. Tomorrow. Anytime of the day._

_Ask for Rubeous Hagrid._

_And Harry… Happy Birthday!_

Harry stood for several minutes, reading and re-reading the card. He searched quietly the rest of his table, to see if there was any other strange message, but it turned out to be a useless quest.

Again laid back, the boy stared blankly at the ceiling. It was a **Sunday**… the library wasn't supposed to work. And he should know… he had spent a good share of his previous years there, avoiding Dudley and his gang. And who was this Rubeous person, anyway? How did he know about his birthday? And how exactly did that bloody card get there, in the first place?

Of all this, anyway, something good came along. A wakeful night later, as Harry devoured his breakfast silently and left Privet Drive in a fast pace, he knew exactly what he wanted for his birthday:

_Answers._

**PERSONAL NOTE****S**: As my fellow reviewer predicted, the dim-witted Dursleys didn't get a thing. Next chapter… you know him! You love him! And he isn't a complete moron this time around: Hagrid! Thanks to all my supporters, I hope you're satisfied with the progress.

Hope to hear from you soon.


	5. Chapter V

**BOOK I:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER ****V: **_He who rattles the cages_

One would figure the last place to find a student in recess would be a library. One would be wrong, if the student in question was to be Harry. He _adored_ it.

Especially during summer breaks. When no one else actually had to study and it was almost like having the entire place to him. Add to the recipe that Dudley was just as allergic to books as he was of peanuts (and that little whale was _very _allergic to peanuts), and there it was: hideout and playground wrapped in three floors of endless shelves, tables and books. It was more than just a simple public library: it was an infinite supply of friends and adventures.

It was about to become something else entirely, though…

Harry approached the silent building cautiously. Shaped in a big circle with towering columns by the entrance, it was a powerful and welcoming sight, differing from the 'hey-we-all-look-alike' suburban houses surrounding it. There weren't many windows, but a huge portion of the ceiling had been rebuilt in reinforced glass, providing magnificent natural lighting (and a depressing place to be in a rainy day just as well).

Harry peered through the windows here and there, circling the building quietly. In order for the library to be open, Mrs. Flaherty ought to be there, he thought. The current librarian, although carrying a few decades on her shoulders, had in her passion for literature the necessary strength to carry on the daily duties a place of that size required. Aside from her, there was only Mr. Donahue, the peaceful and somewhat crazed young janitor. His knowledge of famous quotes and poets from the past had granted Harry many pleasant afternoons of debate, when the cleaning of the third floor and Harry's math lessons were temporarily left aside.

They were nowhere to be found today.

Harry stopped by the double doors marking the entrance. Taking the card from his pocket, he revisited those same weird phrases."How come it claims 'anytime of the day'?" he wondered, his eyes searching the floor. It was only then he noticed…

The left door was about half an inch open. Taking a step back, the youngster hacked his brain for the last minutes. He was positive the door was sealed shut by the time he arrived. Whoever opened it must've done so after Harry got there. Breathing deep, he stood quietly waiting for something to happen. No one came out.

"Okay, Potter," he mentally said, "you wanted those answers. Go and get them."

Slowly, Harry pushed the door. Checking for bolt locks on the right side, he pushed it open as well, granting the base floor extra lighting. He knew well that to any passer-by this would appear to be outright juvenile felony. He admitted, surprised, not to care in the least.

"Hello?" he tested, taking some steps in. He knew how the library looked like with a handful of visitors and its two employees, and knew instantly which version of it he preferred: the hollow echoes of his voice and footsteps were frightening, even though by that time the sun's position granted the entire place quite a lot of brightness. It had enough brightness, at least, to reveal the giant Harry had met the night before, quietly reading a newspaper by a couch (somewhat now smaller than Harry deemed it to be). He lifted his eyes to the door, broadly smiling.

"Didn't really take you for a morning person."

"Curiosity tends to get the better out of me," the boy started, surprised yet again by the calm his companion exuded. "I suppose you're here to present me this Rubeous person."

"Indeed," said the giant, folding the newspaper and extending his hand. "Rubeous Hagrid, at your service."

Harry stood quite still for a while. Reluctantly, he approached and accepted the handshake, sitting at the nearest chair. "I was supposed to _ask for you_."

"Yes. But **you** were the one to question, I daresay."

Harry, still unable to understand what he was talking about, gazed outside. "Shouldn't we be worried about breaking in?" To this, Hagrid laughed.

"Don't suppose you let _anything_ slide around your stare, now do you?"

"I try not to."

"Very well, then", exclaimed the giant in a theatrical fashion, waving his hand sideways. As he did so, the double doors closed behind Harry. His eyes widened in shock.

"How did you do that?" he asked horrified.

"Quite like you saved that little girl yesterday, Harry. _Magic_."

The giant leaned back, the couch creaking much like Dudley's chairs used to. He waited patiently for the weight of his statement to sink in.

"Magic?" said Harry after what felt like forever, in complete disbelief.

"Magic," retorted Hagrid, that deep voice of his still thundering, but quite lecture-like.

"_Right_…" said the boy, prolonging the word in the air, "I hope you don't mind me asking, _Rubeous, _but… what's the name of the mental institution you escaped of?"

Again, Hagrid laughed, somewhat enjoying Harry's defiance.

"I wasn't expecting you to buy my story up-front."

Harry shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. "Honestly, HOW am I supposed to? You waltz into my relatives' backyard, leaving a note – God only knows how, mind you! – into my bedroom, telling me to come here on a Sunday, at the risk of firing an alarm or something else and…"

"Oh, they don't have alarms", interrupted the giant, "apparently your common burglars hold no interest in books. Probably why so many fail, if one asks me…"

"… AND now you tell me that I avoided being hit by a truck… with _magic_?" added Harry, frustrated.

"I take that, in your reluctance to accept my theory, you have a better one."

"Well, I…" he started, his voice trailing off as his mouth hung open, his hand running through the back of his head as it usually did, "I ran, of course!"

To his statement, Hagrid inched himself forward, a bit more serious.

"You don't really believe that. In your heart you know it wasn't _naturally _possible to do so. Not as far as your definition of 'normal' goes to this day, at least."

Silence followed him long after that. Harry looked from the gigantic man standing in front of him to the floor continuously, trying to find a backdoor, and some kind of response that still eluded him.

"You can't be serious. There's _no such thing_ as magic."

"Is that so?" inquired the giant playfully.

"Yes! There are card tricks, and illusionism and… that thing you somehow did to the door! You know those people that go to theaters and appear on shows!" reasoned Harry.

"We actually have a handful of trouble with some of those…" added Hagrid, his eyes rolling thoughtfully to the ceiling.

"What?"

"Some are, as you wisely put it, illusionists. You look to the left as they trick you on the right. They are smart men and women, nevertheless… just _men_ and _women_. Some… are not. You are like them, Harry. You, my little friend… are something _more_."

"There's nothing wrong with me," added Harry defensively.

"No one said there was something wrong with you. In fact, yesterday you woke to an entire new world of possibilities. Or, as I prefer… you finally found yourself," Hagrid sentenced, again relaxing on the couch.

"You're lying."

"Nonsense," began Hagrid, apparently a bit impatient now. "If you truly believed that, you'd have walked out of here already. I'm not even sure you would have come if a cell in your body didn't believe my words yesterday."

Again silence. Harry's eyes no longer stared ahead. The floor seemed far more interesting.

"I do realize," continued the giant, his tone softer, "that having lived eleven years with the Dursleys might as well have shot down your belief in other people's honesty. In happy endings or things of that sort. All I need is a chance to prove I'm serious. I _fought_ for the honor of standing before you today. Allow me this much."

Harry shook his head in disbelief. His head was spinning slightly and he was quite sure by now that coming to the public library had been a mistake… so why couldn't he leave? What was it that was so familiar about the huge lunatic in front of him?

"You know my name", he finally managed to answer. "You know my relatives and for how long I live with them. H, H, How is it that you know so much about me?"

"_We go way back_," Hagrid answered simply, in the affectionate tone of a friend returning from a long journey, as if they had much to discuss, many adventures to recollect.

"What are you talking about?"

"Does this mean you'll actually start _listening_ to me?" said Hagrid, a thin smile lifting his beard. Harry couldn't help to smile back. Rubeous' serenity was intoxicating.

"Sure."

"Good. Now we have some other things to discuss", said Hagrid standing up. "For instincts… who your parents were. How they lived, and how they died."

Harry's jaw was suddenly wide open. "You _knew_ them?"

"Oh, yes. And I also know about that burnt scar you have on your chest, just above your heart. Now… how do you feel about a walk?"

**PERSONAL NOTES: **I read the chapter I uploaded, re-read it, and didn't like it a bit. Blame it on the brain-storming of thinking too far ahead. I'm quite content, however, with how it turned out to be now. Decided to keep it simpler, somehow.

Regarding Hagrid… I think of him as someone who captivates both by his size and psique. He's not so blunt here, but he won't give Dumbledore a run for the money either.

And Harry's scar, yes, I relocated it. I figured someone that despises Love would try negating it as much as possible. Any better way to do it than aim for people's hearts? Hope you like the story so far, review when possible. To **AchillesMonkey** and **Texas Dragon**, my special thanks.

Hope to hear from you soon.


	6. Chapter VI

**BOOK I:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER ****VI: **_Flowing truth_

Harry instinctively reached for his chest. Though it didn't hurt or embarrass him, Harry had never told ANYONE about that scar. It was the one true bond to his parents that Time hadn't been able to sever (metaphorically speaking). It was the only mark from the accident that caused him to grow up an orphan. The one thing remembering him of how things could've been different if… well, _if_.

"So… so you know about the fire?" he mumbled. The giant gave him a lop-sided smile, almost sadly.

"I daresay there's much about it that **you** still don't know," retorted Hagrid, heading for the library entrance.

"Meaning?"

"What exactly did your… _beloved _(at this, Hagrid visibly clenched his massive fist) uncle and aunt tell you about your parent's deaths?"

Harry followed him outside, the sunlight hurting his eyes for a moment. "Well… they never really liked to talk about it. They always told me what the police report seemed to confirm. And then they told me to stop asking. Aren't you going to lock that door?"

"**It is** locked." Sure enough, a loud 'click' was heard as they left. "You read the report? How?" asked his companion, admired. Harry smiled, in that way children do when they're caught doing something they shouldn't.

"Knowing my relatives as you claim you do, don't you think I'd be curious about what other life I could be living? About a year ago I told them I had to stay at school for extra work and headed for a police precinct two blocks down that street," he said, pointing south. "I asked an attendant for help. I guess she felt sorry for me," he added, pausing at this point, his vision straying on the cement below his feet, "and gathered any information she could."

"And?"

"And you should know as much as I do. Gas leak, blew the house inside out," he said simply, a fraction of tear forming in the corner of his eye. "My mother had enough time to take me out so the neighbors saved me. She wasn't so lucky. Neither was dad."

Silently, Rubeous patted him in the shoulder (surprisingly, it was a soft touch, considering that his hand could grab Harry by the head effortlessly) and started walking, signing so that the boy would follow. The few other people on the street paused in awe to observe Hagrid as he passed. He didn't really seem to mind.

"So, sir…"

"Hagrid will do just fine. Besides, _Sir _is for old people and professors. Since today I'm neither…" he added, smiling.

"Hm, right, _Hagrid_, then…" but he was interrupted.

"Lady Luck was nowhere near your parents that day, we agree on that. But I'd be a squeaking fat pig before a gas leak would take your parents along with it," he answered, foreseeing the question in Harry's eyes.

"W… What do you mean?"

"I mean, little one", said Hagrid as they entered the very same park where Harry hid the day before, "that around ten years ago, give or take a few months… your parents were **murdered**."

_Murder_.

Harry stood frozen in his place. He hated that word, ever since he read if for the first time. There was something ugly about it, its simplicity and its impact. The way it rang painfully around the ears. The way it stung the eyes, jumping out of newspapers and books. Now he knew why it felt so intimate to him. He felt a jolt through the burned scar over his heart. No, it wasn't the scar. It was his very heart grieving. Grieving beyond he had ever been capable of.

"What do you mean _murdered_? Who did it?" he demanded, a string of agony in his voice. Rubeous would not return his stare. Instead, he aimed the calm, watery surface of the fountain ahead.

"There will be time for that answer."

After agony, the anger followed suit. "Why waiting?"

"There's far too much you need to understand before you're ready for that information," said the giant, finally turning around. There was sadness and reluctance in his stare. It was dangerously close to pity. Harry despised pity. _He did not need it._

"For now," added Hagrid, "take a seat with me."

Very slowly, Harry strode forward. He didn't take the same bench as Hagrid's. The giant considered the point taken.

"I know it wasn't fair to hand this over to you like daily news, lad. However, as a good friend of mine tells me frequently, the truth is preferable over lies. You asked, I answered. Now I need you to listen. But before you listen, I need you to trust me."

Their eyes locked. There it was, thought Harry, that unnerving calm, some form of patience beyond anything the boy had ever witnessed. Beyond Harkin's towards Dudley, he pondered, and that was quite a lot.

"Would I be here if I didn't?" said Harry, arms folded as to show he didn't have to like it.

Hagrid sighed, sitting properly, eyes facing straight ahead. "Do you see the fountain?" he asked. Harry, turning his neck, slightly, didn't really feel like pointing out the obviousness of the question itself. Instead, he merely nodded.

"You see the fountain, alright, but are you really _looking _at it?"

"Look, Hagrid," said Harry cutting in, "I like puzzles and riddles as much as the next kid. But I don't like going around circles."

"And I promise you I'm nowhere near of leading you into one. What I meant is: can you understand the variety of laws that allow the fountain not only to exist, but to _exercise _its existence?"

He took a moment to watch Harry. As expected, there was a bewildered stare in return.

"Look… in order for the water to flow there, it needed a course. Men established that course with metal and stone, shaping pipes and figurative walls. But the water is a force in itself, one of the primal elements composing everything around and inside of us. In its power, though, it still respects most of the governing laws of our world, such as gravity, and the pressure the latter creates, preventing the pool from rising up in the air. The stream, the squirts, everything is connected by a set of defined rules. These rules allow it to stay there, a nice little monument for people to look at and relax."

"So?" asked Harry, following but not getting the point.

"What if I told you", said Rubeous, raising his hand like there was an invisible glass in it, " that most of these rules… are just there because _you believe_ they are the way they are?"

Harry averted his eyes, back at the fountain. His jaw dropped, and his hand was shaking as it fixed his glasses back up.

Over the decorated stone borders, but without a single drop of water escaping to the grass, waves danced in perfect circles, going back and forth around the fountain. Eventually, _fishes_ made entirely of water jumped from one side to another, and they _smiled_ at Harry. Two or three minutes later, the water suddenly began to subside, returning to its usual tranquility as Hagrid's hand slowly made an equal descent. Since Harry seemed to have lost his ability to make coherent speech, the giant continued:

"What I just did, Harry, is no different than what you performed yesterday to save little Danielle. For a brief moment, you altered existing rules regarding the space around you, and produced the desired effect, although at the time you didn't quite realize what you were doing: you jumped from a place to another. What's more, while carrying a child completely incapable of understanding what was going on. You performed a _teleport_. It's quite a lot at your age."

Harry's jaw was still partially hung. He looked from left to right, petrified with the thought of someone else testifying that episode. They were, fortunately, alone.

"H… How?"

"No one knows for sure. The fact remains that, at some point of life, to some early, to some later on, there are people who… _awake_. Some random event – in your case, the necessity to save a life – pulls the trigger, and we become more… aware of the world. Of the tenuous strings that tie one thing to another. Thus, wizards and witches are 'born'. You and me… we are _magi_."

"_Magi_?"

"It's the technical term. Latin, or some other stuff. We've grown to learn that 'A-ha!-I-can-fly-and-you-can't' was far too enthusiastic to separate us from the rest of the world," replied Hagrid in a mocked attempt of thoughtfulness.

"Fly?"

"We'll be getting there in a bit. Basically, what I'm trying to tell you is this: to a certain extent, Harry, you are – you have always been - capable of manipulating partially your surroundings, the prime energies that sustain and fuel it."

Harry stood very still, terrified and excited at the same time. How was that even possible? "But, Hagrid, I mean… why me?" he asked humbly. It saddened him, the thought. But it was inevitable. He had felt so mundane his entire life. **Why this? Why now?**

"I could ask about the same thing. We all could. But there are theories. Inheritance is as good of a guess as any other. Sons and/or daughters of magi normally develop the same traits in varying levels, but this is not a rule. Wizards and witches have perfectly _regular_ children as well. Some people, too, just have their brains clicked in the right direction. Much like in the uses we find to our little… _change_… there are no specific rules. Just guidelines."

Something stirred in Harry's heart at those words. It occurred to him as easily as a melody is to whistle. A smile crept upon his face.

"Are you saying that…?"

"Yes, James and Lilian Potter were too, quite enlightened," added Hagrid laughing openly, as he stared at the youngster. The giant looked briefly at the skies, judging the time by the sun's position, ignoring for a moment the absolute happiness that filled the black-haired boy eying him.

"We should really get some lunch," he said, buffing carefully a small insect away from his coat as he stood up. It was only then Harry realized how hungry he was. His thirst for discoveries had fooled him so far. Yet, as effective as it had been, it would not be so for long.

"I highly doubt that my uncle would welcome you, though," said Harry disappointed, half-ashamed.

"If your aunt's cuisine is as good as her looks, lad, I'd gladly shove poison down my throat before accepting any invitation from them," said the giant, twitching with the thought. "No, there's a small place in London we should visit. Great steak there," he added.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I think you'll be very pleased." That said, Rubeous conducted Harry out of the park, down a couple of streets, and into the subway. Up until the giant knocked his head on the train's ceiling, they had absolutely no problem.

**PERSONAL NOTES: **This was quite fun to write. Up next, Hagrid continues to introduce Harry to a world hidden beneath his nose. Thanks for sticking around.

Hope to hear from you soon.


	7. Chapter VII

**BOOK I:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER ****VII: **_Recollecting the unknown_

"So… how many of us… you know, exist?"

"Say what?"

The strange pairing of an eleven-year old child and a giant still gave Harry and Hagrid quite a lot of attention as they entered the heart of London. The subway exits were extremely crowded, and it was hard to keep up any kind of conversation till they reached the streets.

"How many?" repeated Harry, dodging the passers-by, "You just said that there are more of… of _us_? I was wondering about the numbers."

"Nothing certain," Rubeous began, as he trailed off to avoid collision with a shocked couple. "We are all around the world, though. And many more than you would think. This way," he added, pointing towards a light-crowded street.

"So how come I never noticed anything…"

"Out of the ordinary?" the giant interrupted, again finishing Harry's sentence. "Most of us tend to keep a low profile to ourselves. Some", he continued, turning around another corner, "as you wisely assumed, like to show off and become magicians, illusionists. Even though it's harmless enough, and they usually stick to the basics, we do not encourage people to follow that road."

"Why not?"

"We get our mouths full first, and then the lesson continues," sentenced the enormous man, stopping at some point of Mercy Street. It was quite an industrial area, Harry noticed now. Many large and abandoned buildings circled them. So occupied he had been in listening and asking questions, that he never noticed where they were headed. They faced a quiet little pub; one Harry judged was around for quite a while. The sign above the door showed a beautiful woman in elegant, wavy robes, preparing some sort of concoction using a cauldron. It leaked menacingly from a blind spot the woman couldn't see. In high antique letters above her, the pub's name:

_"The Leaky Cauldron?"_ asked Harry.

"Yeah," said Hagrid, pondering, "Tom there can get you food you'd gladly chop a leg out for, but bless him, he's not the most creative lad. Shall we?"

It was nothing like he pictured from the outside. The Cauldron guaranteed an outsider's second thought before entering: the two-floor building in classical design gave signs of age, looking quite ready for historical preservation. On the other hand, its inside was warm and welcoming, no different than a large living room, with long couches around clean and wooden tables. A piano stood by a corner near the bar, waiting for the next drunk to believe it was worth the effort of some improvisation.

The place itself was nearly empty. Two men looked their way as Harry and Hagrid entered the room, a second later resuming their conversation. A woman pulled a napkin up to a three-year old stuffed mouth, while trying to control the six-year old attempting to leave their table and run around the place. Aside from them, only a solitary man across the bar, cleaning a spot previously occupied by a beer. Nearly bald but maintaining a respectable gray beard, Harry watched his peaceful expression. "Quite Santa-like", he thought.

"Same as always, Hagrid?" he asked, a weak smile added to the question. Apparently, Rubeous was a regular.

"Maybe later. But I'll take one of your famous meal specials, Tom. Two," he added, waving his hand sideways to show Harry. Tom smiled politely.

"It's a pleasure, son. My name is Tom, and this is my little 'hovel'," he said, looking around with pleasure. "And you are…"

"Harry, sir. Harry Potter", he said, accepting the now trembling hand of the bar owner. His eyes darted from Harry's eyes, to his hair, back to his eyes. He glanced at Hagrid suspiciously.

"Got loads of his father's look, didn't he?" said Rubeous. Tom smiled.

"Lilian's eyes, though", said Tom. Harry smiled broadly.

"You knew my parents TOO?"

Tom aimed sideways, again searching for Hagrid. The giant shook his head minimally, his eyes lightly menacing. The barman took the hint. "Why of course! The Potters' son, what a pleasure! You know, your mother was the only one to ever find out the secret ingredient all my meat pies have! You ought to have some of it later!"

"He will," said Hagrid, touching Harry's shoulder to indicate a table. Tom disappeared into the kitchen, broad smile lighting up his face. Rubeous took some time to accommodate himself, moving the table to the right.

"I keep telling him he needs to make the couches bigger," he complained.

"So why is it that you don't like people to… well, to _show_ what we can do?"

"Let me answer with another question", said Hagrid, stretching his arms forward. "If your uncle and aunt find out that you have these so-called _abilities_… suppose they are not afraid. What will they do about it?"

Harry pictured a future not far ahead from him. It was no different than the dreadful past he now tried to escape of.

"They'd probably use me."

"Either that or hurt you, maybe both. And that would be the reaction of about eighty percent of the general world population. We; and I mean _humanity_ as a whole, always fear what cannot be understood. To most magi, the origins of this _awakening_ we experience are still elusive, weightless. It's for the best that we hide. This is an international understanding. A Decree, if you prefer it," sentenced the giant.

"Decree? Like a law? Made by whom?" asked Harry. It was Tom, bringing two large plates with a delicious smell about them, who answered.

"By all of us, lad. Much like in any organized society, we gather and elect people to discuss the issues that matter to us all."

Hagrid nodded. Harry was again mesmerized. "You mean… Tom, are you a wizard too?" he whispered. Tom laughed pleasantly, as he spotted a woman near the bar asking for fire. The barman retrieved a lighter from his pocket, clicked it and controlled a thin string of flame to her cigar with absolute precision. As he closed his hand, the whip of fire puffed and vanished, a mist of smoke in the air. The woman didn't seem to be impressed at all.

"Everyone here is, Harry. One who's _blind-folded_ to the world, is blind-folded to the Cauldron," he added importantly, stuffing his chest but not managing to pull back some belly. He returned to the bar happily, ready to help the newcomer.

"In daily bases we call it _The Covenant_," said Hagrid, chewing a large piece of potato. "It is the primary law one must obey to ensure we, as a community, survive. Not that we get complete collaboration, though. There are some who resent the subterfuge we live in most of the time. Some, even, who believe we should have rule over the world."

"Rule?" asked Harry confused.

"Might sound weird, considering you're a good kid and all. But yeah, people get seduced by what they can do. They don't mind doing magic in front of common people. A while ago, even", to this, the giant paused, uncertain as to go on with the story or not, "there was one who didn't mind _using_ people as the target of his sorcery."

"Meaning…?" said the boy, although he somehow knew the answer in his heart.

"He killed. Dozens, hundreds. At a certain time he even started gathering followers. People with the same ideals he had, just too afraid to admit it without someone powerful to back it up."

"But Hagrid, how come this isn't in History books? How come I never heard of this? If he was a mass murderer and all…"

"Think of History as a stream, Harry," started the giant, his knife flying in his hand describing a river over the table, "a stream with countless banks and shores. In every sand bank, in every shore, someone stands alone. We all see a different stream. We all have different ways to see the same thing."

"History," he continued, "is no stronger than this table before us. What gets recorded now and then is someone's vision of a certain event. And even memory can change," he sentenced, winking slightly.

"People were told… _convinced_… to forget," concluded Harry. Even Rubeous was surprised with his quick understanding.

"To their own safety. Yes."

Silence ruled as they continued their meal. Something still troubled Harry. A gum-sized thought in the back of his head… Hagrid would not have brought this subject up merely for educational purpose… "He killed my parents. This murderer… didn't he?" he asked, locking eyes with his companion.

The giant didn't reply immediately. He used the table towel to wipe sauce out of his lips (not without a very admonitory look from Tom) and rested his knife and fork.

"Yes, he did," he replied sadly. He could not see, but knew that Harry's fists were clutched. There was a mix of fury and desolation in his heart, as he lifted his green eyes back for the rest of his questions. And he had many…

"What was his name?"

"Harry…"

"His name. Please."

"Voldemort," said Hagrid after a pause. Even the lights grew weaker as the name traveled in air, hanging in its terror. "At least this was the name he used during the dark days he walked among us. We don't speak of him much. Most of us just wish to…"

"Forget", added Harry.

"Indeed."

In what seemed like forever, Harry took the time to absorb the weight of this discovery. It didn't really change anything, but explained quite a lot. The distance the Dursleys always treated this subject with… they knew this truth. They had to know. And regardless of doing it to spare him or mock him, they had lied about it. For ten years they lied. What kind of family does that? This could wait though, he'd deal with them in due time. He'd address his questions when the opportunity came. For now, there was still one stone ahead.

"So what was made of him? This Vold… Voldemort? Is he arrested?"

"Chances are he's quite _dead_, actually," replied Rubeous. And this time his tone was halfway between cautious and silently elated. "Vanished from sight and never returned. About **ten years ago**."

"What happened to him?"

"Funny that _you_ should ask. You're probably the one person in the world with that answer."

"What do you mean?"

Hagrid stood up, smiling mischievously. "Ever wondered how and when it was that you got that scar of yours?"

**PERSONAL NOTES**: Coming up: Diagon Alley, some changes and encounters. To all my reviewers so far, thanks for the patience, I know Hagrid sounds a lot different but I'm quite content with how he's turning out to be. He'll still have his humor about him, just a bit smarter as you can see. I know the progress so far hasn't been great, but I prefer to think that if I was eleven years-old and someone threw this kind of information at me _in a day_, I'd rather have it in small and progressive 'doses'. So I'm taking my time here to get some consistent base to the tale without making it far too slow or way too fast.

To **GinnyLover14**, I guess I could've been clearer in that question, indeed. The word _Magi_ just represents wizards and witches as a community. It does not separate them in any way. Either you **can** teleport and do all sorts of crazy things… or, as the Dursleys, you **can't**, hehehe.

Hope to hear from you soon.


	8. Chapter VIII

**BOOK I:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER ****VIII: **_Reasonable doubt_

_"I killed him?!"_ said Harry petrified. _"Being one year-old?!"_

"Not sure, lad," said Rubeous in the calmest of tones, as if their discussion revolved around the next week's weather. He looked around making sure nobody was paying attention to their conversation before proceeding: "As far as information could be gathered – and mind you, there wasn't much left of your house to tell a story by the time anyone got there – Voldemort broke in and, well… assassinated both your parents."

It stung Harry. There wasn't exactly a subtle way to hand out this kind of information, but Hagrid sure didn't show any signs of finesse while doing so.

"By the time I got there, the house was on fire already. There was time to take you out of your cradle and take James and Lily out, but… it was far too late for both of them."

"It was _you_ who got me out of the house?" asked Harry in disbelief, a little louder than he meant. A few heads turned their way. Hagrid noticed and signalized the bathroom. Harry, still shook up by the amount of information to process, nodded as calmly as he could. He gave Tom a thumb-up as he passed, as to say the meal had been delicious (what, in fact, was true).

It was the cleanest bathroom he had ever seen (and taking aunt Petunia's into account, that was quite an accomplishment). There weren't any catch phrases or obscenities written in the walls or doors. The floor was spotless and dry. Harry headed for the sink, resting his glasses down and throwing a nice handful of water all over his face.

It wasn't a complete surprise. At least, now Harry knew why it was so easy to believe all the nonsense that crazy giant had been unloading on him mercilessly. Maybe deep in his mind, he still remembered knowing him. He still trusted that giant.

"I know it's quite a lot to process", said Hagrid behind him, closing the door.

"Do you really?"

"Well, not EXACTLY, but I can draw a good picture," said the giant, staring at his feet. "Look, answering your question: yes, it was me to take you out of the house. As soon as I… _got word _of what happened, I went there. Teleported, much like you did yesterday."

Slowly, Harry turned to face him, glasses back at the base of his nose. "And…?"

"Suppose I won't be joining firefighters anytime soon," continued the giant, leaning against the wall, and hands in the pockets of his coat. "I tried to draw as much of the flames as I could, but I've never been quite good at changing or controlling elements, like you saw Tom do a few minutes back. So I entered the burning house. Your father was just by the stairs' front steps. Your mother was with you at your bedroom. And there you stood, some pounds of baby fat and a pair of curious eyes," he said, attempting a joke. "Funny thing is: you weren't crying, you didn't seem to be afraid at all."

"I should be in shock," pondered Harry, not really conscious of his words.

"Perhaps. Anyway… managed to get you and your mother out. The only other thing I noticed about the room was a dark set of clothes right in front of your crib. I knew that cloak all too well from previous sightings. But Voldemort himself was nowhere to be found."

"My guess is as good as any other", he continued, "Well, maybe not _as good_, but I think whatever he tried to do to you came back at him. It fried his ugly face out of existence."

"How do you know I didn't do something intentionally?" asked the boy, scared with the possibility. He did not need this karma. Not now, and not anytime soon.

"Because if you did, that scar would have no meaning whatsoever," retorted Rubeous, pointing calmly at Harry's chest. "I saw it that very same night. Something hit you hard there, lad."

"Could be a burn from something that fell from the ceiling," said Harry defensively.

"If anything fell from the ceiling, you being that small, it'd have killed you. 'Sides the roof was quite intact. And it's no ordinary burn, Harry. I'm betting it even grew a bit as you got older."

Though Harry didn't want to admit right away, it was true. "So what does it mean? The scar, I mean?"

"Beats me. Though of magical nature, I suppose it's just a scar. Got loads of that myself at Hogwarts, Dumbledore always tells me I have to be more careful," he added proudly. Harry stared back blankly.

"Who's Dumbledore?"

"What do you mean?"

"Meaning _who is he_? Friend of yours?" started Harry, forgetting for a moment the dizziness of millions of thoughts punching his cranium and trying to focus on casual conversation. Rubeous eyed him suspiciously for a good minute or so.

_"Who's__… Dumbledore?"_

"That is what I asked", said Harry weirdly. It wasn't exactly a tough question. The giant remained silent for a while… and then, as if he had planned it all along, he slapped himself in the head violently, closing his eyes. The mirrors trembled a bit with the shock. And Harry was quite positive someone at the bar got spooked from the shriek he heard.

"By the Heavens! We went on and on and didn't even start on your shopping! Well, call me a donkey and hand me a chariot! Let's get a move on!"

"Move _where_? You still haven't answered my question."

"I've always preferred _seeing_ an answer instead of _hearing_ it. Come on," said Hagrid, moving to the back of the bathroom, to what seemed like a janitor's closet. The inscriptions **Only authorized personnel** drew Harry's attention. Rubeous noticed.

"Oh, that's just Tom's sense of humor. Let's go."

The room itself was nothing like a janitor's closet. It was large and bright, but aglow in its own right, since there no lamps or candles as far as Harry could see. By the farthest wall, Harry noticed three phrases beautifully written.

_Ed. A general. A renegade._

_No garden. One dragon._

_Did Dean aid Diana? Ed did._

There was a fourth line, with three blank spaces followed by other four. Harry's astonished face wasn't even matched by the first time he attempted to follow a guitar bridge with his violin at school. "What the…?" he started, turning around to see a thoughtful Hagrid, his hand up in his chin.

"This is a new one," he started. And then, looking back at Harry, "Got it already?"

"What am I supposed to get?"

"Another one of Tom's pranks. He likes to get people to, and I quote, _'exercise their minds'_. We have to solve the puzzle. Complete the last sentence."

"What for?"

"Solve it and you'll know it," was Hagrid's reaction.

Slightly irritated, Harry focused on the wall ahead. Then again, this was common ground for him. He loved a good riddle more than anyone he knew. Mrs. Flaherty often welcomed him into the library with one or two of those. It was indeed good exercise.

This one told a story… of sorts. Of Ed and how he probably helped Diana escape a dragon or something like that. There was always deep pausing in all three phrases. Dean and the garden didn't particularly seemed to matter; however Harry knew well not to dismiss any elements before seeing the big picture. _Nothing is coincidental_, the librarian used to tell him.

"The answer is in the rhythm," he said aloud, eyes narrowed. His arms folded across his chest, he took a step closer to the wall, Hagrid eying him confused.

"Rhythm?"

"The way it was written. It is very paused and sound. The clear, short words. Very little use to verbs."

"Are you sure you're just eleven?"

To this Harry laughed, closer and closer to the words. "Mr. Harkin used to tell me I'm an old soul. He was my music teacher", he added, seeking Hagrid to explain and then returning his attention to the phrases. His head turned slightly left.

_What is it that I'm missing…?_

It was the "did". The repeating "did" at the beginning and end of the last piece. It gave everything away. "Palindromes", he thought to himself. All palindromes… you could read front to end, end to front, it was all the same.

_How does it fit in…?_

Beginning and end. End… E. N. D. The initials of all phrases!

"I know I'm close", he said aloud, ignoring Hagrid's huge smile.

_End. E. N. D. I have to connect this to palindromes somehow. Maybe the answer isn't one, but there's a reason they're there. But D. N. E doesn't make a word. How is it that I…_

And then it hit him. Pure satisfaction spread across his face. He turned around to face Hagrid.

"E. N. D. N. E."

"I'm not following, Harry."

"Read it fast, not trying to elaborate much," said the boy, turning around to look at the last phrase, yet to be written.

_A__n__d __t__h__e__n_

"The story goes on", he added smiling, a bit uncertain.

At first nothing happened. Five seconds later, the two words Harry spelled aloud appeared, verifying he was, indeed correct. Hagrid patted him on the shoulder.

"Glad you got your mother's wit; you know… sometimes I'd get stuck here for a good hour before Tom would take pity on me." Harry laughed, but only for a brief moment. His mouth was better occupied then by hanging open.

The wall bearing the phrases shook. Suddenly the bricks forming it started to rearrange themselves, revealing inch by inch a space wide enough for Harry to walk through. Soon enough, the entire wall had aligned itself in the shape of two solid open doors. It was large enough for Hagrid as well now.

Beyond laid a poorly decorated but beautiful stone-paved street. To the left and right a number of curious shops stood out in the scenario, costumers browsing around, and the usual racket of negotiation, the money flowing from buyers to sellers. The street stretched beyond sight, turning slightly to the left and disappearing in the corner of what looked like a bookstore.

"Welcome, Harry, to the _Diagon Alley_. If you can't find something here, it probably doesn't exist," said the giant waving his hand theatrically.

Harry stood in awe. "And what are we looking for anyway?"

"Your school materials, of course," said Rubeous. Harry eyed him carefully. What exactly did Hagrid know about public schools?

"I'm pretty sure I won't be needing anything extraordinary to attend secondary school, Hagrid. Not at a public one."

"Do you think I've been putting crazy ideas inside your head for nothing? Lad, if you're a wizard, you might as well learn to be a fine one."

"What are you talking about?"

"This", he said, handing Harry a letter. The seal bore a strange symbol to it: a bird, a lion, a snake and a badger intertwined. They held a pendant with an inscribed 'H'.

"I, Rubeous Hagrid, officially welcome you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

**PERSONAL NOTES**: Thanks to my reviewers so far. The next chapter will be quite larger than the rest, I suppose, given that there are many sights in the Alley worth visiting. Either that or I'll break it down in smaller ones, though I really prefer to take one long shot at it.

I **do** apologize for the terrible riddle, I know it pales in comparison to almost any other you might've heard, hehehe, but I thought about how I could show Harry's interest in books and quick thinking, since he felt a great deal of solitude in his youth and would probably take shelter in his imagination. Riddles, I thought, were the way to go. Again, thanks for reading and reviewing, if possible.

Hope to hear from you soon.


	9. Chapter IX

**BOOK I:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER ****IX: **_The paradoxes of metal_

After the first shock (the boy was getting quite used to it by now), they calmly strode down the half-empty street. Hagrid took the time to explain him, with clarity, what was Hogwarts in fact.

"You see," he began, "it isn't really that different from any other school. For the sake of appearances, you're encouraged to take many classes that won't really differ from any other you'd have at that school the Dursleys are trying to lock you in. You can learn Mathematics, Biology, Physics, all that load of cr… _ahem_, knowledge. You can graduate and have a school report that'll fit you anywhere around the world."

"Right," said Harry, looking at the envelope in his hands. "I bet School of Wizardry looks great on a curriculum."

"Indeed it does. Anyone not familiarized with magic will look at this letter and any document from the school and read only "St. Donovan's Secondary School for Gifted Youth."

"St. Donovan's?"

"Some headmaster thought it would be funny. Anyway… the real purpose, the reason why the school exists – and it does so for quite a while – is to train young men and women, tuning them further with their true nature. Even though magic itself cannot REALLY be classified or divided in strict disciplines, given the wild and free 'structure' it holds, we try to give you 'guiding routes'… when you know the basics, we trust you to follow your own paths and contribute to the magical community yourselves when you leave school."

"Sounds reasonable enough," added Harry, his eyes straying left and right.

"It isn't all that different from this place, in fact, and this is one of many others throughout the world. Places in which magi can commune and grow, make trade without judging eyes, have fun and learn without worrying about Paradoxes or anything of the sort."

"Paradoxes?"

"Magic-related… _events_, by the lack of a better word. Think of them as an earthquake's aftershock: the fabric of our world, most of us believe, is magic in its purest sense. However, to dim eyes, what we are capable to do is impossible, and their _**belief**_ is an important factor to consider on the world's structure."

"Huh?"

"Okay… practical example. Suppose you decide to make a building appear out of thin air. I'm not saying you couldn't… maybe someday you will. _It is possible_, understand? But to any ordinary mind you _just… can't… do it_. And if you decide to do this in front of a whole lot of people who don't get what's going on, the fabric I mentioned before stretches… falls apart, slightly or greatly, depending on the effect they witnessed."

"Then what?"

"No one can predict what happens. That's why we call it a Paradox. Could be a horse losing its teeth in the vicinities, or a nuclear blast. It's too unstable to be formalized. The point is… making magic in front of people who don't accept it can be very… let me put emphasis on that… VERY dangerous."

"So how come nothing happened when I saved that girl?"

"No reason why it should. The truck driver doesn't _really_ believe what he saw to be real, and prefers to take the police version… that you ran away from the truck. And little kids believe just about anything, so I guess you dodged a bullet alright. It's not unusual for a small Paradox to happen when someone awakens."

"What happened when you woke up, Hagrid?"

"I don't like to talk about it."

They progressed through the Alley, pausing here and there to look at some windows.

"So how come no one ever found this place? I mean, it's quite open", started Harry, looking at the early afternoon skies, "a plane or a satellite should see right through."

"Each person that enters this place protects it, in a sense. The fact that you _think_ about keeping it safe from outer sight helps. Probably two or three planes pass around everyday and all they see are the industries around the Cauldron. We should really get going, though, if we want to get this done today."

"Well… there's not much here. School books, uniform… _conduit_?"

"We'll get there."

"Only thing is, Hagrid, I… " Harry froze in mid-sentence, embarrassed. He looked around sadly. The giant stopped aside him, his absent-minded eyes waiting for Harry to finish his brain-storming.

"I don't have any money with me. And my relatives won't pay for all this, I'm quite sure."

"Good thing that your parents left everything they had to you, then," said Hagrid thoughtfully.

_"What do you mean?"_

"Well, you can't account for the house, but your father came from quite a wealthy family and both your parents worked quite hard to live a comfortable life. I'm pretty sure everything they had is yours now," replied Rubeous, scratching his head. "Suppose your aunt and uncle never told you. Then again," he added, sensing Harry's own thoughts, "I'm quite sure the knuckleheads didn't know a thing about it, or else they'd have put their hands all over it by now as your legal guardians. Gold is gold everywhere in the world, after all."

_"Gold?" _asked Harry, even more confused.

"Oh, yeah, this is important too. Most of us don't really work with any modern… what's the word? Ah, yes, _monetary_ system. Gold, silver, copper, that's the stuff most magi merchants care about. It's far more difficult to forge, and easier to spot when it's fake. That said," he continued as he strode further into the alley, "we should go to the bank first."

"You have a bank here as well?" asked Harry trying to keep up.

"The only you'll probably use throughout your life. _Gringotts_."

The giant stopped, Harry just reaching his side. Before them, coming to a sudden halt of the alley stood a building with a striking resemblance to the North-American Library of Congress that Harry had seen in pictures; the differences were fundamentally in the pillars, who appeared to hold the construction together in dangerous, 'Torre di Pisa-like' angles, and the glowing ivory tone everywhere that should demand cleaning products by the gallons. Standing there for too long would require sunglasses, Harry pondered. There were no windows, just a small flight of stairs and two warehouse-sized golden doors with intricate markings and designs ahead. Gringotts, the bank's name, stood out in simple letters held high.

"Flashy." It was all Harry could muster.

"Dwarves talk a big game, as you kids say these days. They can afford to. And before you even ask, **yes**, the bank owners are all dwarves." To that, Harry smiled. He now realized his constant questions about everything were starting to become predictable.

"Shall we?"

If the boy had been impressed on the outside, the inner bank was even more mesmerizing: As the immense doors opened and closed with loud, metallic 'clunks', he realized it was no different than an ordinary bank, but _what a bank_! They had managed to keep the simplest of decorations and still make it worthy of wonder. Very little tapestry on the floor, lots of polished wooden tables to the left and right, and a stone-shaped, small and tranquil fountain at the middle of the hall, surrounded by comfortable couches for the waiting clients.

Not that anyone waited long enough to enjoy the experience. The dwarves, Harry observed, were clockwork-efficient. In varying heights that didn't stand out from Harry's, they were all casually dressed: not a single business-man suit in the room, except for some of the clients. Their beards and hair were long like Hagrid's, but somewhat kept in a neat, cleaner fashion, without setting aside the rudeness and fierce lines that accompanied their faces. That taken in consideration, one could easily presume they'd be hard to deal with. One wouldn't fall on his face completely.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," said the dwarf nearest to them, locking eyes with Harry. "My name is Rofel. How can I help?"

"Boy here has to make withdraw from his family vault… you know what?" said Hagrid, in a tone Harry judged forcefully at ease, "I'll take a little visit to _my vault_ as well."

The dwarf stared at him significantly. "Well, of course, Hagrid. You know the procedure. Right this way."

Rofel led them to a side corridor, going around the main hall. "I take it you're the Potter boy," he said nonchalantly, turning only the slightest to watch the boy, his hands crossed on his back.

"How'd you figure?"

"With all due respect, you're the spitting image of your father. Your family vault has been quiet for around a decade. I'm terribly sorry about the tragedy of your parents, of course… though it did bring some greater good, wouldn't you agree?"

Harry opened his mouth to protest angrily, but Hagrid stopped him. In mute lips, he told Harry: "Clueless as they come!" The boy repaced his breath, not bothering to respond. Rofel took it as a sign to continue. "We have been expecting you to claim your belongings for quite a while. I suppose you do not possess the original key?"

"Here," said Rubeous, lifting a small piece of silver in the air. "It was recovered from the house remains", he told Harry.

"Very well, now, if you follow me…"

They reached the end of the corridor. There large metal pipes ahead, reaching for the ceiling. Straight ahead there was nothing but a naked wall. Rofel pulled a small lever aside him, lowering slowly the pipes to the point where they disappeared into the floor. They stepped through.

"I would tell you to brace yourselves, but we improved the lifts. They move quite smoothly now," said the dwarf, pulling yet another lever. This time, the pipes rose like spears, blocking their way out. Chains rang all around them, and it was only then Harry realized the corridor they had just crossed was rising in front of him. "My mistake", he corrected himself, "**we** are going down."

For half a minute they saw the sliding walls around them. And Harry observed how the rock around them changed from the polished blocks of the upper floors to their natural, earthly core-like shape, sharp and sturdy. Then, the descent stopped.

"Welcome, Mr. Potter, to Gringotts's vaults," said Rofel, slightly pleased with himself.

It was hard to keep any composure at first, the boy figured. The high ceiling filled with gleaming crystals that shifted its brightness according to how you walked around the massive entrance gave the distinct feeling of nightfall, as if they had never left the surface. The cool air, silently reaching out of what seemed like endless dungeons stretching in varying corridors starting from where they stood, gave the entire place a cryptic look Harry detested at first. It reminded him all too well of his bedroom back at the Dursleys, only in larger-than-life proportions.

However, a minute or so in there and perspectives changed. As Rofel led them through a series of perfectly aligned corridors, turning left and right through crossroads with a familiarity that would impress any maze designer, Harry observed the ancient tapestries carefully spread between the indestructible vaults, the lit torches burning calmly along the way and realized that entire construction was quite old, castle-reminiscent; it dated back to a time when electricity was but a dream in crazy man's minds. That sense of quiet aging, the feeling of participating something much greater and meaningful than his pathetic life so far gave Harry a jolt in his heart he didn't quite understand. He was thrilled…more than ever before. More than he imagined he would ever be again.

"This is it. Vault 4-2779, Mr. Potter," said the dwarf stopping in his tracks. The door to the vault itself was punctured by thousands of small locks. Obviously, it took someone from their staff to know which one was the right lock. The door seemed made of polished, solid steel, but not any steel Harry remembered seeing before in his life. It gleamed in a hollow fashion, unbending, adamant: it emanated some sort of force that shook the very bones in his body. Harry wasn't sure a napalm strike would move it an inch from where it was.

"_Mithril_, gentlemen," said Rofel, sensing Harry's gaze drift along the door. "It comes from the deepest chasms around the Earth. Its core structure is so dense that even the magic that can be applied to it is limited. Not that it needs any magic around it anyway."

Rofel took a short look around the door. Apparently satisfied, he inched the key inside a lock to the extreme left, low from the center. Loud 'clunks' indicated he had done his job right.

"I'll wait by the end of the corridor. When you're done, all you need to do is call me."

Both Harry and Hagrid stood there, looking at the silvery door surface.

"So… what are we waiting for?" asked Hagrid.

"You expect me to open this thing by myself?" retorted Harry petrified. "Each lock alone must be around my weight!"

"You'd be surprised. Try it out."

Slowly, Harry motioned for the edge of the vault. Pulling the door as hard as he could, his surprise was great: not only had he discovered the wall he deemed immovable to be light as a feather; but the force he applied was far beyond what was needed. Such was his conclusion, as his body got flung backwards and he fell on the floor. Hagrid laughed very slightly, helping him stand up.

"The greatest thing about mithril," he added quietly, his voice bouncing along the walls, "is that you can use it to shield yourself against a dragon's breath, and still carry it around as a food tray."

_"Dragon's breath?"_

"We're getting there. Now, let me take a look at that list of yours… let's see how much we'll be spending today."

**PERSONAL NOTES:**Hey. Decided to break the Alley down, after all… seemed more reasonable right now, since Time is a treat I can afford rarely nowadays. Some references to the magical world and magic itself as I prefer to portrait it in the fic, as you can see (if somehow you bumped into the "Mage" RPG by White Wolf, some of this will come as no surprise, I used some of it as reference to build the story in my head; further explanations in the future) Coming up… school shopping. Do review whenever possible, I always like to know how the progress is. And my deepest thanks to those who reviewed so far!

Hope to hear from you soon.


	10. Chapter X

**BOOK I:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER ****X: **_The abysses of ourselves_

Harry still held some distant enthralling in his stare, as the vault was sealed shut behind him and he and Hagrid found themselves back at the dim-lit corridors of Gringotts. It was the very first time in his life he was actually _thankful_ for staying with the Dursleys…

He was positive that it was the way he had lived through these last few years that determined how he'd face piles and piles of coins looking back at him. There was gold, silver and copper spread all over the place: put Dudley in there and it'd take an hour or so before it all vanished. Harry, instead, at the age of eleven, knew better than to do that. He asked the giant that they retrieved only what he assumed was absolutely necessary, and not a single coin above it. There was something nearly spiritual about that treasure hidden deep beneath the city. He knew his family should've worked really hard to build it up. He was not about to ruin it with childish desires he had always managed to get by without.

"Thank you," he said silently to the ceiling, aiming for the skies, hoping anyone could listen. Hoping against hope that they knew how grateful he was. His eyes rolled back to the corridor, where Rofel and Hagrid proceeded east-bound: he suddenly realized they still had to see Hagrid's vault. Catching up, he followed suit, a pouch tied to his belt, ringing from the clash of small coins in its insides.

"He could always wait for us here, you know," said Rofel, glancing sideways back at Harry. Unbeknownst to the boy, there was a general rule in the bank to show the clients only their individual vaults, as to certify that no one would find temptation in stealing from another (as stupid an idea as that would be, anyway). But Hagrid waved his hand in negation.

"I trust an eleven-year boy not to rob Gringotts, Rofel. Besides, he ought to see _the cave_."

This seemed to ease Rofel's mood somehow. "Ah, yes… _it_ is indeed a sight. Very well."

Deeper and deeper they entered London's foundations, all silent. The air grew colder around them and Harry cursed himself for not bringing an extra jacket. Then again, how was he supposed to know as he left Privet Drive that morning that, by the afternoon, he'd be entering halls and caves several miles beneath the streets?

"This way", indicated Rofel, the echo of his voice booming around them. One last corridor led to a vast room, supported by four pillars carefully placed in the shape of a square. From the core of each pillar, thick chains ran down, tightly clutched around four great metal claws on the floor. The center of the room had silvery symbols spread around in a circle. Harry thought they looked very beautiful but noticed they didn't relate in the slightest to any alphabetical pattern known by him.

"What are _those_?" he asked Hagrid.

"_Runic carving_. You'll learn a lot about it at school," he replied simply, stepping inside the circle. Harry noticed, as they all entered the space marked by these 'runes', that they were slightly brighter, almost pulsing with life.

And then Harry realized; a second before the runes on the floor were parted in halves and the chains started to take them on another descent; it was just another lift. It didn't seem to really matter a minute or so later, when his pupils adjusted to the newfound light and he finally understood what _the cave_ was.

The chains suspended them into an enormous, haunting chasm. It was mostly untouched by the dwarves, its natural state highly preserved: spelunking adepts would drop their jaws in reverence to it, thought Harry. He was lucky not to be afraid of heights: Harry had quite a keen eye to judge distances and figured it was about two hundred and fifty feet from top to bottom, large as two and a half soccer fields aligned. A huge, placid lake stood by a corner, running from one wall to another, its gleaming surface lighting up the walls in constant waves, quite a lot like the _aurora borealis_ over the Pole.

"This is _amazing_," he said, turning around to see a very proud Rofel beaming at him.

"We take pride of our doings, Mr. Potter. But it's always good to have them recognized by someone else."

It was a slow descent. Harry took the time to find his bearings. He noticed there were three large caves in symmetrical positions not far from where they would land. He figured they'd be entrances to another set of endless corridors winding left and right, leading to many more vaults, better protected though. Nothing to it, he thought ironically, considering the fantasy scenario in which he stood ever since he woke up that day.What he found most interesting was that, in a glance, he saw three little wooden boats by a carefully crafted, small 'pier', at the far left end of the subterranean lake. It was quite hard to spot them, since there was a massive rock about ten feet from the pier, and depending on the height of their way down, the boats wouldn't be visible at all.

Silently, Harry's eyes followed the length of the lake, searching the opposing wall. And he finally found what he was looking for; the reason why there'd be boats down there. Another cave, smaller and completely stripped from any lighting. He pointed towards it

"What is…," he started, stopping in mid-sentence, tension running its course up his spine.

He had seen a shadow glide in the middle of the lake. It wasn't a trick of light. There was _something_ down there. Whale-sized. Snake-shaped. And not particularly fast, but emanating an aura that clearly stated speed wouldn't really matter down there. What it was, he couldn't tell, though.

"Anything you want to ask, Mr. Potter?" replied Rofel, calmly staring at the ceiling.

Harry gulped. Something told him that the dwarves knew well of the lake's inhabitant, whatever it was. And he deemed prudent not to ask about it, leaving the drifting shadow he witnessed as it returned to the loch's stagnant depths.

"Nothing, really."

Finally, they reached the bottom. Harry took the liberty to jump out of the lift, aiming as far as he could from the lake.

"Keep going, lad, the vault we're visiting is that way," said Hagrid, following him. It didn't take long before they were, again, engulfed by torches and bare corridors. Breathing more calmly, Harry noticed that, differing from the upper floor vaults, here they didn't have countless false locks added to their surface. Each one had a specific mechanism, each door was unique in itself. Hagrid's, in particular, was plain and solid mithril. Not a single visible opening to it. Just the symbol he had seen before that day, engraved in a tiny locket at the center: four animals entangled, holding an 'H'. He made no immediate comments about it.

"Actually, Harry, if you don't mind waiting here," said Hagrid carefully. Rofel was closing in his eyes in utter concentration, facing the door. Although a bit disappointed (a child's curiosity is, after all, a child's curiosity), the boy didn't let it show. Nodding calmly, he walked his way back into the corridor, facing the dancing blaze of a torch as he heard the unmistakable sound of a vault opening… the muffled sound of things being moved out of place… the joyful exclamation Hagrid let out as he found whatever he was looking for at the moment… and finally, the noises indicating that the vault locks were back at their rightful place.

Harry observed the dwarf and the giant as they made their way back. Smiling, he couldn't help to notice that, while he had been standing at Rofel's place, how strange of a pairing they would be, indeed.

He also noticed a small volume at one of Hagrid's pockets that hadn't been there before.

"Ready to go, then, lad? We have a few hours of sunlight yet, and an entire alley to cover."

**PERSONAL NOTES: **I know this one came out a bit smaller, much like Chapter II, but I wanted to post something now, since I'm not sure how much time I'll have to spare to writing the next week. I like the whole idea of Gringotts a lot, and tried to add some of my own picture of the place. Hope that it sounds okay.

To **AchillesMonkey**, thanks! I was a bit afraid of the "dwarf" idea, because even though I like it a lot in my head, as you mentioned yourself, I NEVER seen it anywhere else either! As much as think Rowling's a genius, it is something that always got stuck in the back of my head while I read the books… _why goblins_? If anything, they are but slicing material for swords in any other fantasy world, while dwarves are usually depicted as skilled engineers, adepts of the deep corners of the world and careful guardians of their possessions. Ringing any bells to an underground bank? I may be falling into the ordinary when it comes to other fictions in other universes, of course, but I figured it was worth the shot, and I was quite glad when you mentioned it as a positive thing. I'm not sure if you realize how much help and strength you give by reviewing all the chapters, but be sure it's highly valued! :)

To **rose1041**, thanks as well! I really appreciate the kind words, please continue to review! Hopefully more people will follow up and comment, the feedback is stimulating. Not that the story stats aren't… about 1.500 hits so far, yay! (I do realize there are people with far higher numbers, but these are ALL mine! Hehehe!

Hope to hear from you soon.


	11. Chapter XI

**BOOK I**: _Harry __Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER XI**: _Piercing the Past_

Stepping outside to the refreshing air of the Diagon Alley caused Harry's eyes to narrow suddenly, until the natural brightness adjusted his sight.

"Where to, now?" he asked.

"We could go for the uniform, first. There's a base set you can get here, and some stuff that the school will provide later," said Hagrid, looking absent-mindedly to Harry's list. We could take a look at Maleborian's," he started, pointing at a fancy shop not fifteen yards away, "but the bloke's a bloody idiot, and I'm not one of his favorite people in the world either right now."

"Why's that?"

"A lot of ginger ale, a lot of beer, and a card game. That's all you need to know," he retorted evasively. There's Madam Malkin's, she's a sweet little lady. Let's pay her a visit," said the giant, heading left from where they stood, showing Harry another portion of the Alley.

Madam Malkin's shop stood quite close to Gringotts. It had some charm to it, looking very simple and organized. It was a two stored building resembling the Leaky Cauldron in size, but quite different in appearance. The façade of both floors was composed of spotless glass, revealing several mannequins and portraits of what was offered inside. From there, Harry noticed the place was quite full. It made sense, since it was still mid-afternoon. But this did not suit him: Harry wasn't accustomed to shopping, and although he couldn't explain exactly why, wasn't a big fan of crowds either.

"Shouldn't we come back later?" he asked in what he considered to be a casual tone. So casual, that Hagrid didn't notice his nervousness.

"Nah, lad, that lady there can get rid of this crowd faster than you think. Let's go."

Harry took the time, as they waited for assistance, to observe the scattered customers. With a spark of happiness, he noticed he wasn't the only one looking for Hogwarts' material: there were several youngsters of varying ages, accompanied by parents and relatives, browsing around and chatting animatedly about the upcoming term.

"Another Hogwarts?" asked an attendant, closing in on them. She was blond and her hair was tied in a keep-it-simple ponytail. The bright-blue shirt and skirt gave her a clean, serene look. To Hagrid's nod, she smiled politely. "Hagrid," she started, her hand extended before him, "it's always good to see you. Helping newcomers, are you?"

"Just to break routine, Olivia. Harry here will take the standard set," he said, patting the boy slightly on the back. "What about those boots I ordered a while ago?"

Harry noticed that Olivia took a longer stare at him while they shook hands, a thoughtful expression crossing her eyes. "Yeah… your boots," she finally said, releasing his grasp, "they ought to be arriving anytime during next week. I'll notify you when they do. Shall we?"

She led to another room, separated from the rest of the store. Several booths were occupied, mostly by women trying various combinations of blouses and coats and boots… it was an endless exercise that Harry was sure he didn't have a heart for standing. He smiled, remembering Uncle Vernon's catchphrase when following Harry's aunt around at the mall: _Woman, it either looks good or it doesn't! What's taking you so long?_

"Here you go," said Olivia, pointing at an empty stall. "I'll be right back."

"Don't you need to size him?" asked Hagrid confused.

"I've been working here for three years now, Hagrid. _I sized him on his way in_," she said, shrugging modestly. And Harry had to admit experience counted a lot in this business a few minutes later, as she kept bringing clothes in. The trousers, the shirts, the jacket, the shoes, the gloves, some boots that looked made for hiking; it all fitted perfectly.

"Do we really have to dress like _this_," started Harry, feeling a bit like a young business man in that school suit, "just to attend classes?"

"There's a tie to it as well," joked Hagrid as Olivia brought forth a strange _parka_ for cold and rainy days. "It used to be quite different a few decades ago, you know… you were supposed to wear these large robes and capes and hats. Really _fancy_ stuff. But given that our, well, "interaction" with common people became somewhat more necessary over the years, most of the School Committee favored that you'd continue to dress in more regular manners. Check your facts, most prestigious secondary schools adopt these uniforms."

"Although I bet most boys won't do to that suit the justice you do," said Olivia smiling, eying him for trueness. "Black brings out your eyes, and that's rare, you know."

"Thanks… I suppose," said Harry, rubbing the back of his head in that ordinary fashion of his.

"That'll be all, Hagrid? If so, then… Harry, is it? If you'll be so kind as to get back to your own clothes, I'll wrap everything up for you."

"And I'll take care of the bill," said Hagrid. Before the boy could muster a protest, he raised his hand. "Think of it as ten years' worth of birthday presents. It has some taxes added up, you know?"

Birthday… it was only then Harry realized it was, actually, July 31st. With so much to assimilate that day the event itself somehow had been overshadowed in his mind. Though, in a sense, he thought, from the break of dawn this had been by far the one true day he could refer to as worthy of celebration after all those years of sadness. _Being eleven was great_, he pondered dreamily.

His eyes drifted right, aiming a pair of twins chatting animatedly to a boy: the girls were Indian-traced, and the boy had the unmistakable Irish accent to him. They were all about his age and probably attending Hogwarts as well, judging by their outfits…

Strange thing is Harry didn't inch his body in their direction. He didn't wave or said 'hello', nor anything of the sort. He simply stood by the same corner, folding his over-sized sleeves and tying up his heavy shoes. He had thought about it a while ago, as Gringotts' lifts brought them back to the surface… about how it would be: a completely different set of people, people that didn't know him or his stupid cousin. How easily he could reinvent himself at this new school. Now he realized, though, that his solitude was so intertwined with him it was something hard to let go. He wasn't positive he was ready to try and make friendships. In fact, he wasn't even sure he _wanted_ to.

"Ready to go, lad?" It was Hagrid who woke him from those disturbing thoughts. Not without noticing Harry's last glance back at the children before he took his uniform bags and reached the street.

"Did you get to talk to them?" he asked conversationally later, as they entered the third bookstore on their way, browsing for the four books he'd need his first year. This particular one, _Lorelay's Attic_, had an ample supply of materials like notebooks, pencils, erasers and all objects related, so the giant thought it would be a good place to stop. That, of course, until he noticed how low their ceiling was. The shopkeeper, a forty year-old woman who seemed to hold books as her only passion throughout life, followed them around from afar like a bird of prey, praying that Hagrid wouldn't stumble on a shelf.

"Talk to whom?"

"Those kids back at Madam Malkin's."

"Oh," said Harry half-heartedly, "not really, no. I didn't want to interrupt, you know."

"Well… not that it was the wisest thing, but probably it was for the best," said Hagrid, looking around for _Magika: Theory and First Applications._

"What do you mean?"

"Well… there's this thing I may have neglected to tell you so far," said Hagrid, deliberately staring at the door and finding the knob most interesting.

"That being…?"

"Well… the whole thing about… you know… _Voldemort_ (he murmured), about him and your parents and you… it's quite a famous story, World-wide, in fact."

"Really?" asked Harry, half curious, half frightened. He was amazed by how easily this piece of information sunk in, in fact. At this rate, he figured he'd believe just about anything to be possible. "How come?" he asked, all ears, but with some restrain.

Hagrid visibly lowered the tone of his voice, moving as far away from the shopkeeper as he could.

"Well… for starters… that curse he tried to use on you. It's not supposed to be defended. It's not supposed to be dodged. He meant to kill you Harry, and he was quite proficient at that. You're the only person in the world alleged to have, well… _cheated Death_. So you see, after it all happened and the dust was low, the story was widely documented. I'm sure even here we ought to find plenty of references about you."

_"About ME? I'm in books?"_

"Yes. Well, not about your life so far or the Dursleys, you know, there was a lot of effort put into keeping your anonymity. Voldemort had his followers back in the day, and the heat was on to you: if they'd ever get a hold on your location… well, I prefer to ignore the possibility," he said, shivering slightly. "But as to the occasion of your parent's death and the triumph of your survival, yes, there is much speculation and research. You are, after all… _The Boy who Lived_."

"I'm what?" asked Harry, his disbelief increasing by each word.

"Yeah, that's how most textbooks portrait you."

Harry ended the conversation, browsing through the bookshelves with no particular aim. If was far beyond anything he could've imagined. It was just too much to take like this, in a single punch. So there was a whole world of people aware of his existence now? It made some things make sense, though… Tom's initial reaction as he said his name aloud, and that long stare Olivia had given him… sure enough she had connected some dots, but was gentle enough not to let it show.

"So that's why you said it was for the best. Back at the store… you were afraid of their reaction, and how I would take it," the boy concluded.

"Indeed. If all that mattered were your looks, you'd be in better luck. I mean, only the people who actually _knew _your parents would see the striking resemblance. And the only marking of the… well, you know… is a scar that people can't see. But your name kind of got around anyway."

"So you're saying… what? Some people will already know my name when I meet them?"

"If not all of them… I'd say ninety-nine percent will," informed Hagrid sadly.

Harry had finally found one of the books he was looking for. It didn't seem to improve his mood.

He had heard of life-changing experiences: how a single event was supposed to turn everything upside-down. Well, now it was his life, it was his turn to cope with all these sudden changes, all the adapting. Would he ever live up to it, he wondered numbly as he paid for his books and waited for Hagrid to squeeze his way out of the tiny bookstore. The sun was lowering, down in its own daily routine.

"This is getting old, but I know it's a load of news. I just feel it's for the best that you get them all at once, and start dealing with them in your own time from there on."

"Yeah," said Harry forcefully, trying to put some substance in his own faith, "I understand. You're just trying to help, I know that."

Mostly to break the awkward silence than anything else, he wondered what was left on his list. "What is this _conduit_, after all?"

"Ah, now you're in for a treat. This ought to be a nice little hunt," said Hagrid, indicating a shop just across the sidewalk.

It was by far older than any other store in the alley. In fact, older than any building was supposed to stand, the boy figured: the paint was rotten and the windows somewhat dusty and misplaced according to the rest of the construction. One was inches from the door; the other was several meters away and at least three feet higher than the first, somewhere between what were meant to be the first and second floors. There was a decaying sign up high, hung by old clinging chains, the wind loosely moving it around. It was hard to distinguish the name of the shop, not to say the content of its sales.

"That's _Olivander_'s place," said Hagrid respectfully.

"I take it he doesn't really care about house maintenance," retorted Harry, eying suspiciously the place.

"Nor does he need to. He's England's most respect manufacturer of conduits. Although, a little duster wouldn't hurt the place, I'll give you that much."

"Hear. So… I don't mean to be a prick and keep repeating myself, but…"

"Conduits?"

"Yeah."

"Well… if I managed to explain things correctly, you did realize that magic is basically the ability to handle and modify natural matter." To Harry's silent not, he proceeded, the hands in his pockets, eyes lost in the unreadable sign above them: "But in order to do this more accurately to our wishes, we discovered ages ago that it's important to have an element that helps you channel the energies we need from their natural state into our bodies, and from there on to our needs. These are commonly referred to as _conduits_: objects that assist on the flow of these energies _through you_."

"As I've told you before, there's no guidance or specifications to a conduit, as notably there aren't such things in raw magic. It can be just about anything, from a coin to a piece to stone, a thread of hair to a bird house – although I'm still waiting to see one of those. But it can be, literally, _anything_, as long as it holds some deep connection to you and to the world. It's not uncommon for magi to have conduits that look similar, but they will _never _be equal."

"Another important quality is that a conduit _must_ be connected to a life form widely based in magical strength, as to enforce the tuning of our instincts, the prime forces inside us, so that reason isn't absolute over our passions. That opens the book even further, because every life form has some sort of "connection" to magic. That said, you'll notice most conduits have a piece of an animal's body to it. Unless it's a worm or something, then you can use the whole bloody little thing, I guess."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"This ought to clear it up a bit," said the giant, offering his hand. Harry noticed a big ring in his middle finger. There wasn't much to it. It was plain and silvery, no markings, engravings or anything remotely close.

"_This_ is my conduit, Harry. You didn't notice it sooner because most of what I showed you so far involver merely the movement of my hand, which is pretty much all I have to do to get things done... the few things I can do, anyway. And you can't really tell, but the ring is made of two metal circles. Sealed between them is a dragon's heartstring. So there you have it… metal from the earth, and an animal element to it.

"Really?" asked Harry amazed. "So there are dragons in the world, after all?"

"Indeed, but they hide quite well. And see, it could be a dragon's eye, a talon, a scale… anything really, from any animal. It wasn't my choice; really, the ring was already assembled in this manner when I found it. Better yet: _when it found me_."

"What do you mean?"

"Once we get inside, all will be explained," said the giant, opening the double doors with a slight creak, signing so Harry would follow. Some seconds later, a smile to his face… he did.

**PERSONAL NOTES**: I know it's quite brutal to leave things hanging like this, but do understand… there's work, and family, and girlfriend, and apparently they want attention as well, lol. The _conduits_ came as an alternative to make each wizard and witch even more unique. I do believe a wand is almost as practical as something like that could get, but I'll try to keep varying options. You are all welcome to give me suggestions, but Harry's is a surprise and unless I have a strike of wild inspiration, it has already been chosen (Awwwwww…).

To **AchillesMonkey**, as always, my deepest thanks! Hopefully I'll keep surprising you (in a good way, though, hehehe!);

To **Barefoot Bohemian**, given I had my share of bohemia in my life (and those were fun days, mind you!), I found your pen name quite interesting. Glad I got another supporter for Gringotts changes (go dwarves!) Liked your review, and I do apologize for the length of my chapters. I began them quite small and figured I'd keep the pace around this pattern, but I'll try to give them more substance, if Time permitting. Also, both you and **Achilles** commented on Wit of the Raven around here, so I'll take it that's quality fiction. I'll be sure to look it up sometime, thank you both for the tip. Hope you stick around and continue to contribute;

To **nixglen**, hey! When I first saw your reviews I thought you'd go on and review every chapter in a row (and you're very welcome to do that, if you want), hahaha! Thanks for the kind words, I really hoped the portrait I painted for the Dursleys would stick. And I'm on my word to keep cliff-hangers to a minimum, I promise (no one can see my fingers crossed… "evil laughter").

Hope to hear from you soon.


	12. Chapter XII

**BOOK I**: _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER XI****I**: _Feel the silence_

The quiet sunlight managed to enter the strange little shop, giving away thousands of dust particles hovering around. The opening doors brought forth a gust of fresh air, which in turn rang a sturdy little bell high above them.

No one seemed to be around.

Harry observed the insides as politely as he could. The place screamed _simplicity_ out of each corner and shelf. Six long, stream-lined shelves pointed towards the back of the room. They were the only thing the owner apparently paid any attention to: all clean and filled to the top.

What they were filled with, however, was the real _coup_.

This Olivander person had the most exotic display of items he had ever seen in his life. It stretched from a collection of swords from the most varying forging styles around the world to a pair of elegant yet impractical scissors with a crude frog eye added to its handle. Inside that range, all sorts of trinkets and objects could be found. A pair of bracers with patterns quite similar to those he noticed inside Gringotts, a flashy belt buckle with a bird design to it, a small-sized bronze candlestick, a pair of gloves with several missing fingers and a patch of fur carefully sewn to it… he could go on for hours on a row describing each item.

"Seen anything that you like already?"

The hollow voice came from the previously empty counter. Harry's neck bones creaked with the speed he turned to meet the newcomer. Hagrid didn't seem to be remotely surprised.

There stood Olivander, he knew at once. He was an old man, by the looks around his seventies, wiping his hands with a towel. He wore a baggy, long gray shirt that reached far down his waist, stretched over his pants. The pants were in fact the one piece of clothing that stood out from the rest. He wore _hakamas_ (those long, skirt-like pants more commonly adopted in Asia by martial artists, that Harry remembered seeing in some book), concealing his wiry frame and the old boots that couldn't be seen, but were still heard as he stepped forward, that firm compass playing around the wooden floor. There was a bandana holding his long, curly white-hair back. He kept his beard in a low cut, like he had shaved a few days ago. His face was carved by Time, long lines spread around that made his complexion harder than it should be at this rate. Added to that first curious impression, he had gentle and curious eyes, but Harry soon identified something else behind them. There was more to this man than funny looks and that sturdy calmness he and his store offered.

"Always good to see you, Hagrid," said the elder, the towel loose around his shoulder now as he shook Hagrid's hand with a grasp not quite attuned to his age. "It's been a while."

"Indeed it has," replied the giant. Funnily enough, Harry noticed a respect in his tone he hadn't spared to anyone so far. Not that high of respect, anyway.

"I trust you're still making good use of that ring, then."

"As _often_ as I can." This time, the sentence was punctured in a way as to stop the conversation from going any further. He thought he had been subtle about it. Harry knew better. He had a lifetime of reading people from afar as experience. Olivander, however, noticed it as well and went no further, turning his attention to Harry. The amazing blue eyes pierced him; he felt evaluated to his very bones.

"And _you_, young man...," he started, "I've been quite curious as to when you would appear."

"Were you expecting me?"

"In a sense." He started walking around, looking at nowhere in particular, in the manner of a man receiving messages from outer space directly to his head. "Feels a bit like going back in time, this moment."

"How so?"

"Well… it appears that it was only yesterday your father walked in here with your grandparents," said Olivander conversationally. He strode behind a shelf and disappeared, but his voice tone raised and he continued: "The clothes are different, I'll give you that much. But the hair, the face, even your stance! The resemblance is remarkable! And bright Lilian's eyes, yes… there wasn't a single time she visited the Alley without coming around to spare a few minutes of conversation to this old man. The last time she actually brought you along. You were this size," he concluded, spreading his hands to show a baby form, half a smile in his face, as he made his way back on a different aisle.

Harry couldn't help but grin. He wondered if his mother had found those _hakamas_ as funny as he had.

"Alas, Fate chose they couldn't be here today with you. All the same, here you are. I suppose Hagrid has already explained some of my work to you."

"I covered the bases, old man," said the giant mockingly, "but I left enough room for that monologue that you _love_ to do. Harry, I'll just wait outside, okay?" he said, moving for the door. "I think this is something we all have to go through alone, anyway."

"As alone as my presence permits, I daresay," added Olivander. It was left for Harry to merely nod in acknowledgement, as the doors were sealed shut and nothing was left but Olivander, his collection of items with questionable usefulness, and the dust around his feet.

Five entire minutes passed in absolute silence. Harry was suddenly realizing how distant he was from home. From everything he judged to be the essence of his life. Now that the entire day and its events were sinking in his head, he couldn't help but wonder if this was all just a very, very elaborate dream. If he wasn't about to wake up to the constant screaming of his aunt about how late he was and how the breakfast was supposed to be ready by now.

"I'm pretty sure that, in due time, breakfast and your relatives will be last of your worries, son."

He stared bewilderedly at the old man eying him, the slightest of smiles creeping its way through those dry lips. If that hadn't been a testament of reality to it all… what could be?

"How did you know what I was thinking?"

"I'm what you'll learn to call a _Mentalist_, Mr. Potter. It's a profound detour of magical arts, one that many neglect for the difficulties it presents to the inapt. I'm quite used to observing the patterns of the human mind. How its intricate mechanisms work. That said, I can, through practice, know my way around a person's thought almost before he, or she, does it alone."

"I take it that lying to you isn't the easiest thing in the world," retorted Harry jokingly. He felt somewhat 'naked' before the elder.

"Would you care to try?" said Olivander, his English accent with a clear tone of mockery. It was good to see a youngster with some brains, after all…

"I think I'll pass."

"Very well. To business, then."

Olivander strode along the shop, Harry close to his side, hands behind his back and ears wide open. Eventually he would stop, pick up an object and explain its amazing qualities; not that the boy could fully understand them yet.

But Harry was a good listener, and the elder was a magnificent teacher. He spent a fair amount of time explaining the boy as much as he could about magic, its simplicities and complexities. How it was divided and studied to its core, even though in many ways it could not be formalized, as Hagrid had informed him before.

And then they reached the subject of conduits. Harry discovered the man aside him to be far older than his age pronounced. He was a master leatherworker and blacksmith, a skilled researcher of worldwide fauna and flora. The boy concluded that Olivander had endured and prospered in this obscure line of work due to his commitment to constant study and search for perfection. He loved every single one of those objects, it was easy to tell.

"What I try to provide with my work," he started, "is that initial spark. The true _awakening_ to all the capabilities a wizard or witch can someday accomplish."

"But how is it that you _know_ what to combine? And how can you be sure that all of these objects will have an owner someday?" asked Harry, truly absorbed in the conversation.

"I don't. No such thing as certainties, boy. I just _believe_ that my work is necessary. I've seen proof that it is. Not all people have the ability to forge objects to link them to the world. Now, if I seem to have a _knack_ for it… I might as well _do_ it. Contribute, for the time being. Conduits are not eternal, you know. They are as valuable and reliable as their owners. And will last for as long as they're meant to."

"You talk about them as if they were living things."

"And you would do well not to doubt it," said Olivander, laughing. There was a note of warning in his voice as well.

"So what happens if a conduit… _breaks_? Is that the right word?" asked Harry, running his hand through a beautifully crafted quarter-staff.

"It is as good a word as any other. But yes, a conduit may cease its utility in many ways. It's up for the wizard or witch, then, to find a new, suitable one, or make one yourself."

"You do encourage people to try and do their conduits for themselves?"

"I sure do! Once they are more aware of their abilities, why not? Most of them can't do that kind of thinking for themselves regardless, so the business is assured", he added, winking, "but once in a while, you may stumble at something, look at it and realize it's important to you at some inner level."

"I see."

"You certainly seem to. Now, Mr. Potter, did anything draw your attention so far?"

"I'm… not sure," he answered truthfully, shrugging.

It was the truth: Harry had seen many interesting objects, but nothing had jumped to his sight immediately. He looked around again, uncertain. Olivander gave him a pat in the shoulder for reassurance.

"Not to worry. It's quite common to people who've barely discovered their magical selves. That your case?"

"Indeed." If that little girl hadn't been so reckless, he probably wouldn't be there right now, the boy thought.

"Then let's try a little exercise. I need you to close your eyes."

"What for?" asked Harry somewhat suspiciously.

"So you'll realize why I keep the air so still here. Helps young and eager minds to stop and concentrate for a while!"

Uncomfortably, Harry closed his eyes. He felt stupid doing so, but apparently the elder knew a thing or two. He should have the benefit of doubt.

"Now," said Olivander, sounding a bit more distant than Harry remembered, "I need you to tell me the very first thing that runs through your mind."

"That this is not working _counts_?" said Harry after a few seconds.

"I don't have much of a sense of humor, Mr. Potter," he replied, still sounding farther away.

"So it seems," the boy whispered through his teeth, breathing deeply once or twice. As hard as he tried to concentrate, it was no good. If only that noise could stop…

_Noise. Where was this coming from?_

It was resonance. Acoustic resonance. Not like the one from a musical instrument, Harry could tell that right away. No, this was rather metallic. Much like the sound those metal rods did when you flicked them with your fingers. Almost like the sound of a blade cutting fast through the air, as it vibrated. He moved his head left and right, trying to zero the source of the sound.

"Anything, Mr. Potter?" asked Olivander, hands crossed, observing the young man. Harry didn't respond. He merely mumbled a "sh!" It was to his right, he knew it. Not far. He lifted his arm, reaching to the shelf for assurance. When his fingers found the wooden surface, though, something flashed before his eyes. _As they were still closed_.

He forced his eyes wide open, scared. It had been fast, far too fast. He tried to will the memory of it back, but it was no good. He remembered white, vast plains. He remembered… _paws_. There was the sound of paws and a shallow breath; almost canine. And that was all there was to it.

"Care to share a thought or two, now, son?"

He turned around. Olivander was by the back wall, eying him with genuine curiosity.

"I… I'm… I'm not sure what just happened, sir."

"Try and talk it out. I may have a clue or to."

Harry breathed hard, still thinking he was a bit mental. "I… well, I saw some things. Heard, actually. Heard better than saw."

"And," said the elder, moving forward, "what _exactly_ did you hear?"

"I couldn't really tell. There was resonance in the air. Like the trembling of metal, and… and then I heard something that could be a dog, I don't know."

_"A dog?"_

"Well, yeah!" said Harry a bit angrily. If Olivander was so good at hacking into people's minds, why hadn't he done it already? "I'm sure I heard a fast pace of paws, like a dog sounds when he races. And there was this breath, raw breath. It sounded like a dog!"

"And where was this… 'dog' racing?" continued Olivander, looking interestedly to the shelf on Harry's side. He couldn't really see where the shopkeeper was heading.

"Well… It was like a valley… of sorts. Only it was winter, everything was white with snow."

To this, Olivander opened a big smile, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. "Well, son, then it's solved. Could you get me that box, third from your left, the really black one with silvery detailing?"

Harry obeyed. And when his fingers touched the box, that same bolt of illusion hit him. It was, beyond a doubt, a four-legged animal running over snow-white ground. Yet, again too fast for him to identify anything else.

"Open it up," said Olivander.

Harry did. Inside the carefully crafted box, there was what looked like a ceremonial dagger. He looked at it, taking his time, trying to understand what it meant.

It wasn't just any dagger, obviously. You didn't have to be a genius to realize someone had worked restlessly on it. The straight-lined blade, about thirty centimeters long, must have been forged time and time again in flames until it acquired the strength of the hardest steel and the weight of a feather. There were two different symbols engraved in the blade, one at each side. It wasn't any ordinary metal either.

"That's _arcanite_, in case you're wondering," said Olivander, a glint of pride in his eyes as he stood aside Harry, their forms reflected in the mirror-sheen surface. "It is almost as hard to find as the dwarves' precious mithril. Lighter, harder to work with and slightly less resistant, but still…"

The decorative guard separating blade from handle was silvery: two little claws arching forward. And the handle itself was what made the whole item even more appealing. It was a strange combination of what looked like ivory and ebony, the ebony being its base structure and only appearing in small places. All around it, as if circling the handle in same-level detail, there was the body of an animal. The long tail was closing in on the guard. And the back end of the dagger was its head.

"A _fox_, Mr. Potter," Olivander pointed out quietly. "An _Arctic fox_."

**PERSONAL NOTES**: I'm sort of in a row of creativity, but it seems to be winding down, so expect chapters with some delay…

Things sound a bit different, huh? I hope people won't start throwing vegetables yet, there's a lot of explaining to do coming up. Some are right away in the next chapter; some later on (do remember how far down the road I'm planning this stuff). I know kids shouldn't really play with knives, but hey, Harry's quite responsible by now!

To **AchillesMonkey**, I hope you're not too upset by the absence of the phoenix feather (and the fact that Harry didn't get a bird house to carry around, lol!). I'll explain the fox in due time. My deepest appreciation, as always! By the way, I've been indicating "Belief" around; some of my friends really liked it!

To **Barefoot Bohemian**, (sound of looking through papers, someone clapping the hand in the forehead in a I'm-an-idiot fashion, some low-level swearing, the hitting of the "delete" key and some others to replace the flawed word…) How didn't I see that?! It's what I keep telling: where is a Spellotape when I REALLY need one? Thank you so much, please do continue to point stuff like this out if it happens. This whole thing began as a way to keep my English from getting rusty, so it really helps. My sincere apologies, and please continue to review.

Last minute stuff… most of my chapter names have some close relation to music and books I really like. This one happens to be the name of a song by Goo Goo Dolls with an excellent beat to it, if anyone cares to look it up.

Hope to hear from you soon.


	13. Chapter XIII

**BOOK I**: _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER XIII**: _Where truth awaits_

"I don't get it," said Harry hesitantly. He had never been really fond of knives.

"Have you ever heard of _dream interpretation_, son? It's close to what I just did to you. As soon as your mind relaxed, you were able to fixate it in the prime characteristics of what you, unconsciously, were looking for."

"You talked of metal trembling. That told me that the basis of your conduit, somehow, were metallic. That narrowed my search among my creations. And then, what was missing was the _animal link_," he added, eying the fox once more.

"The frozen fields you claimed to see were actually a glacier, boy. And inside that handle," he added, pointing at the dagger, "sure enough rests a talon from a very clever Arctic fox I met in my journeys."

Harry smirked, admiring again the carefully crafted item in his hands. "I can't really see you walking around the Arctic, sir."

"Neither could I, my stay there was merely for research and kept to a minimum amount of time," retorted the elder. Apparently, the cold winds still haunted him in a deeper level.

"It looks beautiful," said the boy, after what felt like forever.

"But…?"

"Sir, it's a _dagger_. I mean… it is offensive, it is meant for attacking. It's… _it's not me_," he blurted out, his hand an inch from sealing the box. "Maybe I made a mistake."

"I daresay otherwise, boy," was Olivander's answer, and he was dead serious. "This dagger called out to you, as much as you were looking for it. As to the matter of being offensive, the dagger in many ways is a defensive tool, in fact. What you do with it is your choice and yours alone."

"Meaning?"

"Son, it's the mere contact with the object that counts! You don't have to _stab_ things to get magic done, you see? As long as the dagger is in your hands, or close to you, it can help you channel your focus. Of course, the more contact, the better the results, so keeping it in your hand will be quite useful," said the shopkeeper calmly, taking the box in his hands. "Now, take it in your hand and let's see if old Olivander still knows his way around in this business."

Harry was a bit agitated as he commanded his hand forward. What would happen? Would he get a shock or something? Or worse… would he touch it and realize nothing happened, that this was all but a big mistake?

His questions ended as he gripped softly the object, holding it close to his eyes. He noticed the inscribed symbols at each side of the blade: a tribal-like sun and moon. His eyes ran down the handle, across the holding pin to the amazingly detailed head of the fox. It was so perfect Harry momentarily thought that its touch would have a furry texture. It was only then he noticed…

The eyes were glinting.

Two tiny polished spheres that gave the whole animal a cute, clever aspect. They shone as if alive, a hollow, deep-green brightness to them.

"Well, that solves it. The bond is undeniable. It has your eyes and everything," Olivander joked. The artisan had noticed the sparkle as well.

"But I don't feel anything different."

"Well, would you care to take a look around you?" said the elder, moving his hand sideways in the manner of a talk-show host.

Harry froze. There was a variety of objects floating around, suspended in mid-air. That funny glove he had observed in his arrival was spinning in its own axis. The shock of this realization caused gravity to 'work' again and many of the objects collapsed back to the shelves. Some fell on the floor. Luckily, nothing expensive was broken, the boy thought in relief, the cold sweat running its way down his back.

"Was I…" he started, exhilarated.

"I assure you it wasn't me," said Olivander, a small note of pride in his voice, as he gently took the dagger back to its case and moved for the counter. Harry noticed, as he followed the wizard, that the objects were automatically finding its ways back. "You know," he continued, "a wizard's conduit tells a lot about him."

"Does it now? So what does this… dagger… tells you?" said Harry, happier than he could remember being for quite a while. _It was all true… he was REALLY a wizard_!

"Well… as a starting point, Mr. Potter, the dagger _itself_. It is as elegant a weapon as any could hope to be. It is swift, resistant, and discrete. It _demands_ moderation. It tells me that its user, _if he earns it_, of course, is a person of good judgment. Someone who can assess his bearings and make decisions knowing they are the best he can make, given the situation at hand."

"Then, there are the symbols I inscribed at the blade myself. _The Opposites_."

"The sun and moon?"

"Precisely! I didn't know exactly, at the time of this blade's forging, of the reasons why I carved them there. It could be an indication that you'll be fond of manipulating light, as well as its absence, but that will have to wait until your classes actually start, I suppose. It could be also a connection to your past and how big of an evil was necessary to get you here today, a young man of exceptional virtue. Like I said, they represent the balance of all things, the equanimity that holds all things together in this twisted world of ours," he said in a rather theatrical fashion. "And there's, of course, _the Arctic fox_. One of the cleverest animals I've had the fortune of coming across."

"What was he like? This fox, I mean," asked Harry, feeling somehow bound to a beast living thousands and thousands of miles away from him.

"Ah, Mr. Potter, I wish you knew that witted little devil! He'd rather die of starvation than to make a mistake in his hunts. There was wisdom in his eyes, and many times I was quite sure he could understand everything I told him."

"You _talked_ to him?"

"That doesn't really apply to the point I'm making," dodged Olivander thoughtfully, avoiding the subject. "Foxes are cunning and quite adept users of stealth. This one could hide in the snow for hours and hours, waiting patiently for the danger to go away, or his prey to arrive. But foolish is the man who assumes that this behavior makes the fox a coward animal. Like the saying goes, _try and corner a fox; you'll find yourself in more trouble than fighting a jackal upfront_."

"That said… foxes are used to solitude, Mr. Potter. Natural survivors. They appreciate company, but know their way around the world without it. Does that ring any bells to you?"

Harry didn't really respond. He chose to merely smile and pay the man three golden coins for the encased dagger. As he heard Olivander's last recommendations and said his goodbyes, the boy took the time to finally add up all the artisan's comments, joining Hagrid by the sidewalk and making his way back to the Leaky Cauldron entrance, the sun quite low on the horizon. They fit. That dagger… _was quite like him_, indeed.

**PERSONAL NOTES**: I know this one came out quite short, but I've been thinking about what's up next (Harry's return to Privet Drive and how I'll conduct it), and realized the upcoming dialogues will take some double-checking, just so they don't look out of place or surreal to the current state of the story. I wanted to leave some explanations about the choice of conduit before that, though. And if you want to know where the first inspiration to a fox was, look at the picture at my profile for ideas (actually, _that's a wolf_, but you can get a good picture of what I'm aiming for).

I'd like to thank everyone who's been accompanying my tale so far. I see by the stats and reader traffic that there are quite a lot of people who read but don't review. It's just as good, I suppose, but feel free to point my mistakes along the way (a little pat on the back when I get it right is equally appreciated, hehehe!). By the way, you are welcome to review in Portuguese and Italian as well. Now, to my constant supporters:

To **AchillesMonkey**, I hope I cleared some of your doubts about how the dagger could be used. Though I'm pretty sure I can think of some people to stab just as well… (here comes the evil laughter, lol). Thanks for all your help so far, and rest assured I'll look up FictionPress as soon as I can.

To **Barefoot Bohemian**, I re-read my description of the dagger and realized it was a bit confusing, indeed. I'm sure that you can understand, though… from brain to fingers sometimes what it's meant to go down to the keys doesn't come out quite as obvious as I see it. I figured the fox is carved, going around the surface of the handle. Have you ever seen Japanese swords (the third generation of forging, I believe)? How they made carvings to represent dragons, lions or things of the sort? Also, if you look up _sai daggers_, that's sort of how I imagined it in my head, although with shorter guards and a more carefully crafted handle. Again, this is my head and how it works there; just guidelines. I'll try to keep the chapters coming as fast as I can.

This one goes to all of you: anyone knows where did that saying about foxes and jackals came from?

Hope to hear from you soon.


	14. Chapter XIV

**BOOK I**: _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER XIV**: _Sooner or later_

It wasn't a long way back, Harry thought. The distance between the Alley and its marvelous discoveries and the dreaded return to his routine at Privet Drive wasn't really a journey. If anything, it stretched only long enough for Harry to absorb how greatly he'd miss Hagrid's company. He had learned more about himself in a day aside that giant than he had through those everlasting ten years with the Dursleys.

"Will I see you again after this?" asked Harry crestfallen, carrying some of his new belongings in sacks, as they passed around the public library where everything began. Rubeous smiled reassuringly.

"Well, 'course, lad! I forgot to tell, I'm Hogwarts' gamekeeper, and you'll be seeing me quite often during the term!"

"Gamekeeper?"

"Well, let's just say your new school happens to be in a much… _forested_ area. I keep the place looking sharp for a living. I love it, actually; outdoors, you know," he added quickly, taking in the evening air.

"For how long have you been doing this?"

"Sometimes it feels like I've been doing it my entire life. Started doing it even before I left school," he said shortly.

Harry felt somewhat stupid: it was only now he realized Rubeous should've had magical education just as much as he was about to have. The whole idea still seemed a bit intangible, in many ways: sure, what kid wouldn't love to know he could do all sorts of amazing things? But then again, in a world like Harry's, how many kids would truly believe it?

"Term starts at September 1st. You have to take this," said Rubeous, handing Harry a small blank card, "to King's Cross Train Station. You'll know your way around from there."

"Yeah, sure," said Harry, still puzzled by the lack of information in the card, "there's just this tiny little problem of getting there. Will you be taking me?" he asked, and there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"As much as I'd like to, lad, afraid that can't be done," said the giant, and this time he was the crestfallen one. "There are tons of preparations to accommodate all of you, and I'll be quite busy with some of those. You can always ask your uncle to get you there," he continued matter-of-factly. Harry could only laugh.

"You _do _remember who my uncle is, don't you?"

"Sure thing. Big fat bloke, horrid mustache, thinks the world of the little whale he calls son?"

"The very same."

"Ah, Harry, you're worried he won't agree to take you?" retorted Hagrid, comprehension crossing his mind.

"Rubeous, I'm not even sure how I'm about to break them the news of another school. Thinking about it, I don't think they'll take that well… they won't have it at all!"

"Like if they have anything to say about that. They ought to be quite aware you'd get Hogwarts' letter eventually."

_"What?"_

"Harry, lad… your aunt knew _very well_ of your mother being a witch, as much as she denies the fact. She knew of James too. She didn't have to be exactly Nobel-material to put the dots together and figure out there'd be a chance of you making a wizard of yourself someday!"

Harry stopped in his tracks. He didn't know what to make of this piece of information: he knew his aunt was quite capable of keeping things to herself (she had a lifetime of training with Vernon Dursley and his rudeness beyond boundaries, after all), but to think she could've had a glimpse of indication, a simple sign of this… _inheritance_ of sorts, and never said a thing about it? It was a bit preposterous, even to her standards.

"But you said," began Harry, "you said that if they knew they'd try and hurt me, or use me."

"Haven't they already done that along the years, in a similar fashion? And that's not exactly what I said. _No_, I said they would do that…" he began, allowing Harry to finish the sentence by himself.

_Unless they were afraid of me. Of what I could do to them._

"Don't give it all too much thought, lad, not yet," said Hagrid playfully, continuing to walk. "You're still young, untrained, and there is an infinity of things that could go wrong if you tried to hex the idiots. Specially considering how ignorant and limited they are. You never know what kind of Paradox you can get with people like that around. 'Sides, once you've received a letter from a magical school, you're… what's the word again? C_ontract-bound _to restrict your usage of magic to the area inside your school ground until you become of age."

"Meaning I get to learn it, but I don't get to use it?" retorted Harry suspiciously.

"Kind of strange, isn't it? It's not that you _can't _do anything. We can't control you any better than we can control any eleven-years-old: there are certain situations in which you'd be allowed to use it, even, but there are many ways of discovering if you're out and about setting cousins on fire," said the giant winking, laughing as Harry's eyes shot out of the sockets in fear, "and there are consequences to it that I don't think you'll want to find out."

The severity didn't quite suit Hagrid's voice. Harry took it as a sign of how serious this matter was and made no further comment in that direction.

They didn't have much time left for conversation either. Privet Drive, Number 4, was just a few steps ahead.

"Damn, boy, if anything you can always make a living of planning landscapes," said Hagrid whistling, as he observed the neat lawn.

"Thanks, I suppose. So this is it, then?" he asked in return, eyes lost in the lights coming from the house. Aunt Petunia would be probably cursing his absence in the making of lunch and supper, and he knew this probably would earn him some punishment. It wasn't usual for him to disappear for a whole day like that. It would not go unseen.

Rubeous seemed to read him right through.

"Oh, we're not quite done for the day, Harry. There's just one tiny little thing I have to take care of," he said, handing Harry the few bags he still held and making his way calmly for the door. Harry panicked, going after him.

"What are you doing?" he whispered, looking sideways terrified with the possibility of any neighbor spotting the giant by the front steps. It seemed his relatives' fear of gossip and rumoring had intoxicated him to a certain extent.

"Just going to have a little talk with them, that's all," said the enormous man, reaching for the doorbell. He was at least a head higher than the door. Harry figured there was no point in stopping him. "Hell, I might as well go with the current now," he thought, sadly. From inside, the boy could distinguish the approaching sound of his cousin's voice.

"You should beat him senseless this time, dad. Who does he thi…"

When he opened the door, Dudley's voice faltered to the sight of Rubeous. There wasn't intimidation in his returning stare, nor was it required. It seemed at this point to Harry that his companion had an intimidating aura to him that was easily turned on and off at his will. It was but his presence that made him monolithic, unbreakable. And Dudley, not as confident as a second before, did what he judged to be most prudent: ran his way back screaming, not even realizing Harry was there to begin with.

_"__MOOOOOTHER!"_

"You'd figure he'd go for 'mommy', not 'mother'. I must be losing my touch," whispered Hagrid between his teeth, in that thoughtful expression Harry considered hilarious. It didn't take long for the rest of the Dursleys to approach the door carefully.

Vernon Dursley was not a man easily intimated, but even he was obligated to take a step back at the sight of his front door: his barely-tolerable nephew and a man larger than he was, and this was not something you'd see everyday. Processing the scene as fast as he could, Vernon figured the man didn't dress in the manners of the police, but it was the only justified reason for Harry's disappearance that day. _He had done something wrong_.

"Can I help you, _officer_?" he said, gathering as much strength as he could.

"Officer?" started Hagrid confused, looking back at Harry, who shrugged in response. "Oh, you mean like _police_? No, no, I'm nothing of the sort. My name is Rubeous Hagrid, sir. I'm just here to discuss some things about Harry with you."

"What sort of things?" said Petunia. The whereabouts of Harry during the day didn't seem as important as rushing that abomination out of their house. Behind her, peeking at everything around her waist was Dudley, his mean eyes darting at Harry, probably angry for making a fool out of himself.

"Well", said the giant lowering his head to enter the house, though still uninvited, "for starters, how negligent you've grown to be with his education. Moreover," he added, signing so that Harry would follow him and he could close the door, "how you lied to him about the death of his parents."

Vernon was still too offended by the stranger's trespassing to actually pay any attention to what Hagrid was saying. It took him a minute or so to recover, his mouth hung open.

"What do you mean, _lied_? And… why would his education be any of your business?" he hissed. Obviously, he figured he couldn't force the man out, and screaming would only get his neighbors around, something he did not wish it AT ALL.

"It has to be someone's business," started Hagrid, eying the man before him with fury, although his words didn't give any of it away, "and since you people seem to have – not so politely, I might add – declined on the responsibility, you should know some aren't ready to make the same mistake."

Harry took a step back, admiring the scene: this was the highest of tension that Privet Drive had witnessed (including the night when the Tevenele's older daughter ran away pregnant with her boyfriend, screaming to the world how dumb and narrow-minded her father was), he was sure of it. Petunia and Vernon looked at each other, and then locked eyes with their nephew. He was sure they weren't pleased with this disturbance in their quiet little life. They weren't accustomed to being harassed in their territory. They had never looked at him like this, and he had earned some terrifying 'looks' over the years. Hagrid noticed and simply whistled, drawing the Dursleys' attention back to his immense figure.

"I don't seem to think we took any errors while raising this prat," said Vernon in defiance, gathering his guts. "If anything, we did as much as we could, considering he was _dumped _at our front st..."

"I'd be very, _very _cautious with my next words if I were you," interrupted the giant in return. This time he wasn't interested in hiding his anger: Harry didn't really mind about his uncle's harsh words. He discarded them as easily as kicking a leaf to the air. The only thing that mattered, the one thing he was glad about, was that Rubeous' stare wasn't addressed at him, or he would've started running for his life now. The Dursleys weren't as smart, apparently.

"You'd be even more cautious," he added, "considering I was the one who brought him to you." He rolled the ring in his middle finger with his thumb, tentatively, ignoring Harry's bewilderment to this statement. It made sense, though, that if the giant had rescued him, it would be him to make the 'delivery' back then… he returned his attention to Rubeous' speech, trying not to imagine his reception at that house around a decade ago.

"I, for one, was completely against the idea of Harry being raised by people as limited and stupid as you are." Either the insults weren't kicking in or Vernon, Petunia and Dudley were far too terrified to make any retorts. "If I knew back then… if anyone knew back then… I'm sure things would've turned out differently and probably for the best."

Vernon mustered an answer, again interrupted. Hagrid's voice was a bit louder than it was before.

"I suppose you didn't pay any heed to the letter attached to Harry's blankets ten years ago. I don't suppose you spared a glance further than you needed to it. You were inattentive and irresponsible when a life other than yours was concerned. I'm here today to make sure this will not happen again. And mark my words: _you…_ _will not… wish me to come back here_."

He punctuated that sentence in such a way that the floor itself seemed to tremble. Dudley forgot all his excuses for trying to look courageous and dashed for his bedroom crying. Petunia made a move as to protect his escape, but stood by her husband as soon as the boy was rushing clumsily upstairs. Harry wanted to laugh, but couldn't put together a smile: he was still deeply familiarized with what could happen if he did.

Hagrid had touched the Dursleys' Achilles' heel, though: the boy knew they wouldn't want another visit like this. If the giant never came back, it wouldn't be soon enough, if their wishes meant anything.

"Are you… _are you one of them_, then?"

It was aunt Petunia who spoke this time.

Silence held her words: uncle Vernon looked at his wife as if she had blasphemed, eying Hagrid and the boy beside him afterwards in amazement. Rude amazement. He was putting the pieces together. He remembered the few stories Petunia refused to repeat about her sister. _It couldn't be_…

Harry knew exactly what she meant by that. He also realized the question was rhetorical in essence just as much: she knew the answer very well, she had to. This angered him beyond restrictions: so it was all true. His parents, their deaths. She knew. She had always known. And never said a damn thing about it.

"How could you?" he caught himself asking, his fist tight as a stone. She didn't seem shook by his answer, even though her body shivered (probably out of disgust).

"How could I **not**? It was our decision to make, our house." At this, she locked eyes with Hagrid, almost menacingly. "And YOU all, who deem yourselves so important, left him with us. US! So you're better off leaving my house right now! Let us be!"

Rubeous was a bit surprised by her bravery, Somehow, the valiant genes that Lilian possessed didn't seem to be completely lost in her sister.

"You're tough, I'll give you that. Tougher than that excuse for a husband of yours," he said, pointing at Vernon's angered, purple face. "But you're in no position for demands. If you know… _who I am_, as you said it, you know I'm not easily pushed around."

When his last word crossed the gap between them, the hearth suddenly sparked ablaze.

Much happened in a fraction of seconds. Petunia shrieked, taking two steps back, her hands covering her scream. And Vernon, afraid but gathering every last drop of courage he still had, motioned for a cabinet not far from where he stood. He retrieved an old and battered shotgun from it, the one he constantly boasted about. Too many times Harry wondered how it was that Dudley, a moron as he could be, never managed to cause an accident with that weapon, accessible as it always was. True, it was loaded with salt pellets, but still…

A mad smile filled Vernon's face. Harry tried to say something but Rubeous stopped him, standing between the gun and the boy. During that entire day he hadn't looked as calm as now.

"Now," started Vernon, the cold sweat added to that caused by the newfound heat from the flames in a summer day, "now you will leave this house and you won't come back. I don't want to hear any bullshit about this idiot's future ever again. He'll do as we say," said his uncle, flipping angrily the slide back and forth as he stared furiously at Harry, but aimed for Hagrid in center chest, "and head where we want him to."

"I'm afraid this will not suffice for me," was Rubeous' response.

There they stood, in that terrifying display. Seconds turned into minutes as uncle Vernon's head played with the possibilities. He could always claim the lunatic broke into their house and tried to steal from them. It was more than enough justification to fill him with some salt loads. And that knucklehead of his nephew ought to play along, unless he wanted some of ol' Vernon's aim to himself. He decided for it, thinking faster than he was used to.

"Petunia, get the police. If he tries anything I'll shoot him."

"You _will not_ shoot me. And _you_," said Hagrid, staring at Harry's petrified aunt, "sure enough, will not call the cops."

"O-ho! We won't now? Why is that?" bellowed Vernon, leveling the shotgun to his shoulder. Hagrid merely laughed. It did nothing to soothe Dursley's mood.

"Well, we can always count on your fear of scandals, can't we? You will not put yourself to the trouble of explaining to your entire street what was it that was so appealing in your house that caused a man like me to rob it. Besides, you call them, they arrest me, I escape, I come back… not that it wouldn't be somewhat fun, but I'm tired and simply not up to it. Besides… you don't have the guts to shoot me… _fatty_."

Right there Harry knew that Rubeous had crossed the line. Not that his uncle wasn't an outright coward sometimes (and sure enough, a portrait of Dudley's future belly), but to have it thrown in his face was something he would not ignore. Harry screamed and tried to push Hagrid out of the way, but it wasn't enough: Vernon had pulled the trigger already.

And all that was heard was a sound 'click'.

No gun blast, no shot.

"Oh, yeah," continued the giant, in a swift movement taking the shotgun into his own hands, to Vernon's desperation. Hagrid seemed to find it all too amusing. "Even if you **did **have the courage… I took the liberty of messing up with the trigger's hammer. This stupid thing won't shoot again," he said, tossing it by the couch. The flames died out in the hearth almost at the same time. Hagrid rested his hands on the pockets before continuing. Both Vernon and Petunia seemed too nervous to react anymore. They didn't even want to discuss how exactly the giant tampered with the weapon without touching it. Complacently, they heard:

"I consider myself patient, Dursleys. But make no mistake, I have my limits. As of now you're done mistreating Harry. You have a lot to make up for."

"What do you…?"

"I am not finished! He has made a choice of secondary school, one that, I'm sure, would be endorsed by his parents. Far from any filthy one you might have considered for him. He must be at King's Cross station by the first day of September, as the day begins… midnight, I mean, so he can make his way to that school. He will have a choice of returning home for Christmas, although I'm pretty sure will prefer not to. Until then, and for the remaining time he shall spend with you from now on, he is to be treated with respect and dignity."

"Or…?" defied Vernon, still shaking a bit.

"And here I was thinking you wouldn't be dumb enough to ask, Dursley."

He was at least smart enough not to wait for an answer. "Now," said Rubeous finally, reaching for the doorknob, "Harry, I need a quick word with you. And remember Vernon… _I will be watching_. Goodbye," he added, closing the door behind them, leaving a very distressed couple to their thoughts, their son making his way downstairs as he heard the click of the door.

"That was incredible," said Harry. He was more grateful for Hagrid's welfare than for the lesson he taught his relatives.

"Nothing to it. Just remember, King's Cross, September 1st. I'll be waiting for you at Hogwarts." He extended his hand quite formally, but his eyes betrayed him… Harry knew this was a sad depart for him as well, somehow.

"I'll be there. And Rubeous… _thank you_. This has been the best birthday ever. The only one I can call a birthday, really."

Those words tore the giant. He maintained his composure, however. "You're welcome. It was a nice break from routine, alright. I'll be seeing you, Harry."

"Yeah… see you."

The boy watched as the giant made his way down Privet Drive. Maybe it was a trick of light, maybe it wasn't, but as he reached the corner he vanished completely from sight. Harry stood there, looking at the now empty horizon. The same horizon that had challenged so many times before to follow his own steps into the unknown.

"I guess that 'someday' came after all."

He entered the house quietly. His relatives were all gone, probably to their bedrooms, and the weapon was nowhere to be seen. He considered this a gift, in fact. Maybe it had been far too much for them to confront anymore that night. Harry noticed, relieved, that his uniform and other purchases were still untouched. He took everything back to his little 'sanctuary', using whatever room he had left to accommodate it all.

Completely peaceful, and happier than he had ever been, Harry closed his eyes to a dreamless sleep. Though not before admiring his gleaming dagger once more and looking up to where the stars should be, somewhere above the house, far across the universe. He thought of his parents. He heard them in his head…

_Happy birthday, Harry_.

**PERSONAL NOTES: **I'm still feeling a bit unsure about these dialogues. You know that feeling you have when you think you left something important behind (like going to work without your pants… not that I ever did that, of course)? Anyway, I kind of liked the overall feeling to it, and I hope it reflects on your reading. If it doesn't, feel free to talk about it and make suggestions too.

To **AchillesMonkey**, thanks for the heads-up on my mistake. And believe me or not, the idea for the scissors came to me because I was thinking exactly along these lines… I mean, how ridiculous would it be for Voldemort or someone else to go all "kneel before me!" with that _thing_ in the hand… I'm still thinking about assigning it to someone, though… then again, who could it be? Thanks for the support, and as for the reviews, I'm quite content with those I got so far, :)

To **Barefoot Bohemian**, thanks for the kind words, I'll try and keep the rate of updates for as long as I can (muses do have the tendency of coming and going as they see fit, the wild ones). Hey… it kind of hit me now. You sign "BB", that by coincidence are the same initials for "Breaking Benjamin", the band whose song inspired the name of this chapter. And that's for you kids to see that staying in front of a computer for too long gets you to _see _things…

I really need to get some sleep.

Hope to hear from you soon.


	15. Chapter XV

**BOOK I**: _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER XV**: _For the nights I can remember, Part I_

"That's it," informed Thomas, or Tom, the taxi driver.

He was one of those 'carpe nox' kind of people: his wife used to joke about how if she knew she was marrying a 'vampire', she'd have asked for Lee or Oldman instead; and he'd just laugh, kiss her and promise he'd be right back. The night shifts paid better, were less stressful by a mile and usually consisted of rides like this, to the airport or a train station.

Tom eyed curiously the back of his companion's head, a collection of endless threads of black hair sticking out in absolute disorder. "Little dude ought to find out about good ol' hair combing," he thought to himself.

Harry was still looking out the window as the proud train station grew before his eyes. He didn't remember ever going there: the few visitors the Dursleys welcomed throughout the years didn't require his presence at their arrival. Nor had he ever cared to join them for a second longer than he was forced to.

Through the window he saw the last month as one, long and fast-paced trailer…

… had been strange.

Dramatic as the change became, it still didn't seem to cover certain aspects of Harry's everyday-life. Yes, he still slept beneath the stairs; and yes, he was still somewhat poorly fed and cared for (if cared for at all). But it had started just the morning after Hagrid's 'little' visit: it was then it changed. His relatives, almost in a single, rehearsed effort, changed their attitude dramatically towards Harry. They were no longer their former hateful selves. No open war, no insults flung carelessly around the air just for the sake of saying something.

Privet Drive's Number Four was dead silent.

Dudley didn't seem to notice Harry at all… he woke fairly early to his standards and spent his entire days with his school bully-wannabes, and always far from where Harry could possibly appear. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon seemed to have adopted a monosyllabically-generated language to deal with him, and "no" still seemed to be a keyword.

Harry had to admit, though, that for once _indifference_ beat up _open disgust_ by miles. He used many afternoons and sleepless nights to study his newfound books. One in particular, referring to general history and magi's existence and contributions around the world caught his eye for most of the time.

He discovered the Middle Ages were crucial to the general understanding of how dangerous and sought for magic could be, and how the Inquisition and the burning of alleged wizards and witches made necessary the concealing of it, assuring that The World's Weavers (one of the many nomenclatures for the first recognized wielders of magic) would survive to see other generations and better times… more comprehensive times. Harry wondered if every magi's personal existence was as similar as his to this tales. He wondered, too… if he'd ever feel truly free.

For the sake of maintaining a certain _status quo_, Harry proceeded with most of his usual chores, though he was not required to. He figured then his relatives probably wanted to avoid 'bargaining chips': they didn't want him to have anything to trade with, any favors to ask. So that by the time he left them for the term, he'd have only his own company and pretty much anything that portrayed his existence at that house. Nothing else.

He confirmed his suspicions the night immediately before his departure for Hogwarts: after the dishes were done, his aunt (evidently displeased) told him to follow her upstairs. Entering the dusty attic, she pulled from an abandoned corner a very dirty and heavy wooden trunk.

At its side it bore something that resembled a neatly crafted silvery wolf holding a loose ring in its teeth, much like and old house's door knocker. There were four heavy locks placed at equal distances from the wolf, all rusty but looking quite reliable. It was as if the thing had never been opened.

"Might as well take it," said his aunt, who seemed about to vomit. "Lil… my _sister_… she left it at our parents' house after her last visit, never bothered to come back for it..."

Harry was stupefied. "How come I'm only learning this now?" he asked, kneeling to take a better look at the trunk.

His aunt didn't seem to bother answering… maybe she wasn't listening. She just kept her monologue coming…

"… the wind-head, always leaving her things around. Anyway, after my parents passed away, they left it for me… didn't have the heart to throw it at the garbage after that."

Harry laughed to himself, irritated. Who knew there was something resembling a heartbeat in that chest? And that _this_ was what she considered an act of good will?

"You mean you never even _opened_ it?" he asked, eyes still lost on the locks.

"What for?"

"What about the key to these locks?"

"What do I care? Anyway, you can take it to your… just take it with you! And DO take care while moving it around… don't mess up my floor!" she spat, turning on her heels and making her way downstairs to join her husband at the living room. Harry lost the track of time staring at the trunk, a 'heritage' he somehow wasn't ready to embrace.

He took it back to his little room, although he wasn't sure of how useful it could be; if he couldn't open the bloody thing, it was just a ton of extra weight he didn't need. He could hear the muffled laughter upstairs… it did nothing to sooth his mood.

"So what am I going to do with you?" he said, touching only slightly the lock to the left.

With a soft noise of clashing metal, it opened up.

**PERSONAL NOTES: **I know it's been forever since my last update. Moreover, I know it's like the shortest chapter in history. I do apologize. There were emergencies in the family and most of my time has been divided between work and hospital, but everything should be fine from now on (God wishing…). I wanted to leave something here just to say I'm keeping the story alive. The part II should come around this week. My deepest thanks to the people assigning alerts to the story ever since, it's motivating (although I wouldn't mind with reviews, either, hahaha!)

Now…

To **Barefoot Bohemian**, I checked out my sources too and I did mess up the big guy's name… not sure if I'll change it back, though, lol… I'm so used to writing it like this I'll just keep messing up again, hahaha! Hope you haven't given up on me due to delays. Take care!

To **AchillesMonkey**, things seem pretty hurried up for you… hope that by now, everything's running a bit smoother, it tends to after you get used to it. And that's not whining, lol, it's "constructive materialization and analysis of current issues", according to this professor I used to have, hahaha! Always good to hear from you!

To **Swanpride**, thanks for reviewing! I do realize sometimes I sound repetitive, even more when we consider that yes, the general population reading this fictions knows the books quite well, but I figured I couldn't really build up something different up ahead without solid bases. As to the minor changes in terminology, I bring them along sometimes because… well, I don't have any reasonable explanation, I'm afraid, lol… if it sounds good in my head, I try to add it to the tide. Rest assured I took your suggestions in consideration, especially concerning the name of the story… do come around again!

To **O'Mallay**, thanks for the extremely kind words. Hope you'll stick around!

Guess that's it, people… I'll drop the sequel to this chapter in a while, with King's Cross and its not-so-stunning mysteries, hahaha!

Hope to hear from you soon.


	16. Chapter XVI

**BOOK I**: _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER XVI**: _For the nights I can remember, Part II_

Harry took a step back. The open lock instilled some kind of untouched fear inside of him. Had he done magic accidentally, again? There was no sign of Hagrid or anyone else to give him a lecture about it…

…the house was as quiet as it would ever be.

He eyed quickly the remaining locks, wasting a few extra seconds over the wolf figurine; he could swear its ruby-like eyes were watching him back. Was the trouble worth the risk? Pondering over this, something occurred to him, something he had neglected until this very moment…

…the trunk had belonged to his mother.

It didn't take long for him to decide after that: Harry kneeled and calmly ran his fingers over the three locks, this time wishing with all his heart they'd open up (although he somewhat knew this was not necessary).

Whether by his wish or a force of nature, Harry witnessed in amazement as the rust from the locks burst in clouds of dust. In a singular, swift sequence, almost like the chain reaction of falling domino pieces, the remaining spider webs and dust along the wood started to detach from the now polished and warm surface. To sum it all up, the wolf head howled in a very low tone, in what Harry could only interpret as a permission to lift the lid. And doing so, fear replaced for anxiety, Harry discovered that it wasn't completely empty.

There was a strange set of items inside… probably of his mother's ownership, from the days when she dwelled at his grandparent's old house. These were probably things that reminded Petunia of her sister and got thrown in there, without any pity or desire to ever be seen again, along with the trunk.

Harry found an old collection of books, most of poetry; an empty and broken flower pot; and a varying set of feminine clothes randomly spread. Harry removed every blouse and dress, folding each with utmost care, in the hope there was still a faint scent of Lily there. Of the perfume she used to like. Her sweat, if that's what was left… anything…

He cried before he realized it.

Harry cried for a childhood torn and divided, between everything before and anything after that day; cried for the parents he never met; cried for the lost decency his uncle and aunt would never find…

…Harry Potter cried, because for the first time in his life he felt entitled to.

It took a while before the boy regained control. Hands still shaking, he searched beneath his bed for a plastic bag, where he gathered all of Lily's clothes… he would not allow any of that to remain under the Dursleys' roof. It was the only thing in his mind as he accommodated Lily's and his own belongings inside the trunk. Harry wasn't surprised to see a lot of extra space still left as he finished…

"Hum… son?"

Harry turned around to meet Tom, the taxi driver, waking him from those memories.

"I'm so sorry, sir… dazed out a bit."

"First travel, huh?" said Tom, smiling.

"How'd you figure?" said Harry, adjusting his glasses.

"A few years bringing people here will give you that knowledge. And let's leave this one on the house," he added, seeing that Harry had started to search his pockets for change. The boy opened his mouth to protest, to no avail: "I got a lot of tips tonight, I can afford it. 'Sides… from the looks of that uncle of yours, I bet you're just dying to get on that train," he said, winking.

Harry didn't feel the smile that found a breach through his lips: uncle Vernon hadn't been exactly pleased with the idea of taking him to the station, and somehow even less attracted by the alternative, which turned out to be paying someone else to do it.

"Thank you, sir. It's very kind of you."

"Don't mention it. Now let's get that Halloween trunk of yours out, shall we?" Tom replied, opening his door. Harry waved the driver goodbye and made his way into the train station, pushing forward a luggage cart.

It occurred to him now, as he eyed the ceiling and the few passers-by around him…

…that he had absolutely no idea of where to go next.

Hagrid simply pointed out that he should be there at midnight. He did not mention platforms, trains or any such thing. "The only thing he gave me," the boy said aloud, checking the pocket of Dudley's old jacket, "was this blank card," he finished, pulling a small piece of paper out, as carefully as he could.

An interesting fact: it wasn't blank anymore.

There was a small, glowing, WORKING clock figure at the left side of the card. Harry eyed his surroundings, confirming that the time was quite attuned… he had thirty minutes before midnight. Too agitated to feel sleepy, as he double-checked the card Harry noticed a set of golden words started to stream through the white surface…

_Charon guards the way._

"What…?"

Harry searched his surroundings: it had to be a joke. Riddles, now? _Rubeus was so going to pay for this_, he thought angrily.

The boy tried to see if other children were there, accompanied by relatives, waiting for the train. Not much help there… come to think of it, either he was ahead of schedule or he was about to wake up from a crazy dream and have one hellish day. Close to him there were only a couple heading east and an old street vagabond with a dusty coat and a large hat stuck in his head, sitting about fifteen feet away from Harry. He couldn't tell, really, but he felt observed.

"The characters of London's streets," thought Harry, momentarily forgetting the issue of his obscure platform. The beggar's face could not be distinguished, so large was the hat. There was the shadowy line of a beard (by the looks, untouched for weeks) and not much else to work with. His hand was casually holding the strangest cain: it was man-sized and torn in several spots. It could have been a rowing paddle just as well in the past.

"The crazy things people hold on to," the boy pondered, turning around to look for a station's employee. Then again, it'd be an interesting piece of conversation… how does one ask someone else how to get to a magic school that no one "normal" has ever heard of?

_Paddle._

Even a vagabond knows better than to have such a ridiculous thing, he thought. As strong as his stride was, he couldn't get the image of the man out of his head. And then it hit him, clear as daylight… _Harry, you're such an idiot… to think you read all those Mythology books and couldn't remember!_

He raced his way back to King's Cross entrance. This was going to be interesting…

**PERSONAL NOTES:** I know, I know, short chapter. But do remember this was divided, hahaha! I'd like to thank everyone for understanding, I do hope to deliver longer chapters at a faster rate, without compromising quality (the little I can spare, lol). Next, travel with Harry as he discovers new places, new people, and a giant castle in the horizon…

To **Barefoot Bohemian**, thanks for all the support, the next chapter should be satisfying in terms of length. Stick around.

To **T. H. Enesley**, I do apologize for my mistakes. I'll be as thorough as possible to make sure that, if not eliminated, they'll be kept to a minimum. And the snake got here just fine (I'm in Brazil, just in case my joke was too weak)… we're still having some difficulties, specially considering I can't speak with snakes…

To **malko050987**, I corrected the previous chapters and this weekend I should correct them. I'll try not to make you yell at me from now on, hehehe! I'm glad you liked Harry's sarcasm, it won't be a highlighted trait, but it will be there (figured he had to have some, considering the way he grew up).

To **AchillesMonkey**, good to hear from you! Apparently, the battle for the misspelled name has come to an end, hehehe! I'm familiar with that tool for Word, I was just too stubborn to use it, lol.

To **Ranger Dragen**, thanks for all the support. I already started reading your story, my reviews should come in no time. Do come back!

To **Dumbledore**, ok guys, you can say anything you want, but the Headmaster himself came to read my story. That's right! The Chief! Hahaha… you made excellent points. I want to, and I hope I'm able to give some light and personality to most of the main characters of the story: I consider this vital to keep any story alive and worthy of interest. By the way, I read your challenge at the profile, and I do believe I'm making my way into fulfilling some of the requirements (not all of them, though... but I'll try). Thanks for reviewing.

To **Worldmaker**, I appreciate the help. I corrected her name in past chapters; they should be okay this week. It was an honest mistake, though… her name was translated to Portuguese as Lilian, and that's how I read six of the seven books (couldn't wait for the last one so I read the English version). Thing is, by then, when she was mentioned I figured it was a short form. Go figure…

To **Memory King**, I'm not sure I understood your question, but I'll try to answer… Hagrid's mentioned as a Gamekeeper several times in the books, isn't he? According to web description, Gamekeeper is a person who looks after an area of countryside, to make sure there is enough "game" (a twisted way of saying "things to shoot at", in my humble opinion), and who actively manages areas of woodland, etc.

Guess that's about it people.

Hope to hear from you soon.


	17. Chapter XVII

**BOOK I**: _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

**CHAPTER XVII**: _Just drive_

"Excuse me, sir," said Harry, stopping almost breathless aside the vagabond. He realized it was quite bold and irrational to approach a stranger like this. Moreover, using politeness he was sure this man wasn't exactly used to. But he was SO sure of this…

The man before him didn't muster an immediate reaction. Instead, he crossed the cane over his legs.

"Took you long enough," he said, his voice denoting his age. "At least you did the math on your own. Are you alone?"

"Always."

It wasn't what he wanted to say, but it came out anyway. The stranger locked eyes with Harry, almost piercing him. Much like the legend with which this man shared his name, it was as if his eyes were penitent and judging at the same time.

"Well… aren't we all?" he said finally, eyes now straight ahead. "At least you know who to trust. First ride, by your looks... right?"

"Indeed, sir."

"No ferryman jokes in two answers? I'm impressed… and I'm no _sir_; name's Charon, son," said the man, laughing sarcastically. Harry felt it was for the best not to lie, finally catching his breath from the previous run.

"I did consider telling you that a train station's quite far from a river bank, but I bet you heard that too many times. Thought it wasn't… well, appropriate."

"I've heard enough. I've heard them all. Can't complain, really," said the man, standing up and signing so Harry would follow him. "Take my parents' creativity and add up the fact I really love my job, this coat and this hat… people can't help it. It seems _you_ can, though," said Charon, eyeing Harry with curiosity. His cane was heard across the station, echoing loud, although no one close to them seemed to realize, nor care.

"Well… you aren't REALLY guiding me across a river into the land of the damned… are you?"

"Oh, no… you're still taking a train, rest assured. As for the damned part, well… depends on how you'll adapt to Hogwarts, I guess."

His laugh was haunting, unnerving. Harry wasn't convinced he was completely joking.

They reached a far end to the station, next to the very last platform. Nothing but a blank brick wall before them and a long corridor behind.

"Well," said the man, checking a rusty pocket watch, "you're quite early in schedule, and I ought to get back to the entrance, just in case we have another first-year straying around like you. It's what I'm here for anyway. So if you'll be so kind," he said, waving his hand sideways carelessly, pointing at two small statues close to the left wall.

"If I'll be so kind to do _what_, si… Charon?"

The vagabond sighed to the ceiling. "Another one," he muttered. "Come kid, can't you see it?"

"See what?" asked Harry, somewhat impatient.

"_IT!_"

"I see the statues, if that's what you mean. I see the wall and…"

"**No**," corrected Charon matter-of-factly, "you are _looking _at it. Can you _see _it?"

"Look, I think it's a bit late in the day for gam…" started the boy, his phrase lost in the air as he eyed the wall again.

Slowly, he left his cart aside and approached the statues. Between them, wide-eyed, Harry saw what he could only describe as the most impressive thing he had witnessed in his life. There was no wall there… just a long tunnel leading to a lower corridor. Its ceiling, inner walls and floor had been painted in such a way that to any inattentive observer at King's Cross it just looked like an extension of the brick wall. It didn't really matter where you stood… it just looked the same from everywhere, unless you decided to stick your nose directly at it.

He turned to see Charon laughing of him.

"Come to think of it, it's quite the irony… we don't really _need_ any magic to hide magic. Just a lot of paint, and some talented hands to do the job."

"Are you telling me this has never been discovered?" asked Harry, dumbfounded.

"Depends on how you look at it," said Charon, apparently pleased to play a History teacher for a change. "It was on the original budget for the station, and it was built accordingly. However," and to this he truly had a lighter expression in his hazel eyes, gleaming in the shadows of his face, "the station was opened and, blimey, no one seemed to remember this. _At all_. And no one really uses these last platforms, they're kept as… how do they say it nowadays… ah, yes, _historical value_."

"I see…" said Harry, smirking.

"Good. Now get that cart of yours and make your way, will you?"

"Sure thing. Thanks, Charon."

"Don't thank me yet, son… after all," he added, his cane in that weird compass with his feet, "you haven't seen _the boat_ yet."

"I'm sure I'll find out what you mean eventually," whispered Harry, crossing the imaginary wall, unseen. The color of the bricks was wounding to the eyes at first, but it didn't really seem to matter. The boy's heart raced like never before… he touched the silent dagger inside his pocket for reassurance, as his descent led to another corner, and another, and another. He was beginning to wonder if this was one of those clever mazes where the end was the starting point, when the depressing tone of the walls was substituted for quiet lamps in the distance.

Harry reached a train platform quite unique. It reminded him of the London subway stations, but only in basic terms. There was nothing exceptional about it, all things considered: chairs lined to the wall and some couches surrounding the ivory columns all around. This was of older days, he could tell… it seemed fit to accommodate some dozens, maybe hundreds of people. The train, though, deserved a personal note.

It was the greatest piece of machinery Harry had ever laid eyes upon. Lost between the stone-clad patterns of the first trains and the stream-lined models of today, it was a magnificent sight. Imagine, if you will, a train so black, that its tone would meld it to the night if it was out in the open; so long that its countless vehicles reminded Harry of a giant serpent, the shady windows as its scales, perfectly clean; the polished outlines covering the wheels over the rails. _Incredible_, he thought, a smile in his lips.

Harry moved closer, observing every detail, every screw, fascinated. It was a 'top and tailed' model: a silent furnace seen from afar told the boy there were locomotives at both ends of the train. No reversing facilities.

"So this rail must be the only way to get to school. No alternate routes along the way," said Harry aloud to no one in particular, his hand over the cold, dark metal.

"Isn't it far too soon to be considering escape routes?" said a male voice behind him. Scared, Harry removed his hand from the train and turned. In the process, he forgot his cart and tripped lightly over it.

"Easy there," continued the voice. A hand flew ahead, sustaining Harry at arm's length. Before the youngster was a boy, probably in the verge of adulthood. Everything about him, from the neatly combed hair to the polished shoes, it all screamed 'order'. There was a badge over his black shirt, close to the heart: Hogwarts's shield. Didn't take long before Harry deduced he was, too, a student.

Now, standing on his own feet again, Harry noticed they were not alone. Close to the other sections and vehicles there were others. Others like the one before him, quietly watching the platform. Some with arms folded, some checking their watches, one even cleaning his spectacles casually.

"Thank you," said Harry weakly.

"First-year?"

"Kind of shows, huh?" he attempted a joke. It seemed to work; his companion laughed.

"As it does on everyone else when they see this place," said the older boy, turning his attention to Harry's trunk, and then back to the corridor where the boy had appeared.

"Good thing you're an early riser. Let's find you a seat before this place becomes the usual pandemonium." And saying so, he eyed intently the trunk. It began to hover, weightless. Harry watched in amazement as the object followed the older boy up the steps and into a vehicle.

"You coming?" he yelled.

Climbing the short steps, Harry entered a compartment after his flying luggage, just in time to see it rested effortlessly above the seats. There was room for at least two, maybe thee other people there.

"I guess that'll be it. I'd get some rest; it's a long trip… though since it's your first I bet you won't take your eyes out of the window. The seat can be moved so it turns into a bed, and if you're hungry we have dining cars spread around the train, so you just have to look for them. Get used to the place, okay?"

"Should be easy enough," said Harry, feeling elated. To think that just minutes ago he was stuck back with his relatives…

"That's the spirit. My name's Terence Higgs, by the way. I'm a Hogwarts' Prefect, and I'm responsible for this vehicle today. Don't get yourself into trouble and we'll get along fine. Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, bowing only slightly and disappearing through the corridor and out of the train before Harry could even begin introducing himself.

"Nice to meet you too," he muttered, shrugging. He was far too impressed with his surroundings to mind a Prefect's rush. He sat close to the window, watching the small and simple chandelier above him. How it glimmered and made the room comfortable, cozy…

"Guess this is what home truly feels like," sighed Harry, observing as the platform became smaller with the approaching crowds. The families and friends all around, the last recommendations before the trip and smiles from enjoyed summer breaks. Some students, like Harry, came alone but knew their whereabouts quite well, not wasting any time admiring the train or the station.

One minute to midnight.

Most of the students had boarded the train. Harry noticed, somewhat torn between satisfied and sad, that his compartment remained empty. He eyed the outside once more; the mothers cried and the fathers comforted. Brothers joked, provoked and cheered for each other. It filled the air, that elating peace. A one-way ticket to whatever Destiny brought forth.

"Enlightened ones!" a scream echoed. Heads turned for its source, and Harry strained his eyes towards the platform entrance. By the deceptive bricks a man took a deep breath, absorbing life back into his tired self.

It was the vagabond from King's Cross. His stride was renewed, invigorating; he was another man entirely as he sighted the train.

"I am Charon!" he began, walking slowly alongside the train. He knew all the windows, all the eyes, were over him before he proceeded. "And I am the man responsible for the majority of what you see before you today. INCLUDING that colossus, and I mean each and every piece of iron and wood, so I appreciate the care I KNOW you will spare to it!"

Several parents at the platform laughed; apparently, this was a recurrent speech. Harry was impressed with this piece of information… _so it really is YOUR 'boat', old man_, he thought gladly.

"Today, I will take you across earth and water. Today, I will hide you within the stars and scorch your eyes into the sun! And although the river Styx is a bit far," and there was his theatrical laugh again, "this will be, still, the journey of journeys!"

"Remember," he added, finally, stepping into the locomotive. "Remember that THIS is where your lives truly begin…"

As expected, a modest round of applause filled the air, partially of excitement, partially of mockery.

Smoke rose around the platform in dense clouds. The train, solid and adamant, began moving without stress or vibration. Tons of power and raw strength tamed in a reliable, straight-forward path. Harry heard the goodbyes from afar and didn't really mind that the Dursleys weren't there. Smiling, he pulled a small book from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was one of Lily's. Absent-mindedly, he ran his fingers around the cover, eyes on the window. His view was stripped from him as they entered a long, dark tunnel. The chandelier didn't move an inch from where it was bolted, casting minimal shadows. The boy felt warm and protected… the far end of Privet Drive flashed before his eyes, one of those endless evenings of wondering… of longing. This was finally it. He was breaking free. For an entire school term. For the rest of his life.

"Mom, dad... I'm going home."

**PERSONAL NOTES**: Good news! Family's all good and back on track! Thanks for all the patience and the support I've been given, you guys (and ladies) are awesome! Keep reviewing when possible, okay? Next... discover who enters Harry's compartment (you're allowed to make suggestions as well).

To **Memory King**, thanks for the review. Actually, now that I stopped to think about it, I'm pretty sure I thought it was Gate Keeper at some point too. Sounds better, doesn't it?

To **firewingTM**, I'm glad you liked it. I hope you keep on reading and reviewing.

To **malko050987**, thanks for commenting on Lily's trunk, it was a delicate scene to write... I mean... I figured it was impossible for someone to find something like that and keep it together, right? And I hope that the station part was clear... Charon only sticks around to help people in their first travel, after that the students are expected to know their way around. After all, Harry's case is special because he doesn't really have people to lead the way, and I like the fact that he has to make his brain work from time to time. I could comment on some first-years' reactions to Charon, though, what say you? Stick around!

To **AchillesMonkey**, next up is the ride itself. Thanks for the encouraging words, you've been extremely helpful so far! Take care!

Hope to hear from you soon.


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